


Dusty Spotlight

by Avatar_of_the_Lonely



Series: TMA Classification AU Drabbles [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe - Classification, Babysitting, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Caretaking, Depression, Diapers, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Imprisonment, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Needs a Hug, Kidnapping, Light Spanking, Mother-Son Relationship, Napping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Sexual Age Play, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Stockholm Syndrome, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, alternate universe - littles are known, bottle feeding, only a little bit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:26:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avatar_of_the_Lonely/pseuds/Avatar_of_the_Lonely
Summary: “What do you plan on doing to me?” Jon asks, voice shakier than he’d like it to be, but he can’t help it, not when Orsinov is holding him so close to herself.Orsinov giggles, the sound chilling to his ears. “Well, I WAS going to wear you, but now… I think I’d prefer a baby rather than a coat!”~~~AU where when Nikola Orsinov kidnaps Jon, she discovers that he's a Little, effectively throwing a wrench in her plans. Still, even if it’s unexpected, that doesn’t mean she isn’t going to make the most of this!
Relationships: Elias Bouchard & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Helen | The Distortion & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Nikola Orsinov & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA Classification AU Drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1885600
Comments: 94
Kudos: 148





	1. Love Me Gently

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know what the title means either, it just sorta works for this, and I couldn’t come up with anything better. I dunno how long this fic will end up being, probably not SUPER long (at least by my standards), but we’ll have to wait and see. TMA has been my latest obsession, and since I’ve seen a few age regression fics for the fandom already floating around, I figured I oughta throw my hat into the ring, too. This fic is dedicated to labecc who’s writing the “little Jon’s memory book” series, Plumcot who’s written “Baby Need Snack” and “Baby Mine”, and whoever the hell are the anonymous posters behind “accidentally” and the “how to adopt an archivist in four easy steps” series; y’all, all your fics are so fucking good, and while I’m sure I’m missing a person or two whose fics I like, I love all of your guys’ regression fics so, SO much!
> 
> Last edited on December 3rd, 2020.

They find him at around noon, the sky so grey that it’s hard to deny that it’s early fall in England. Bundling the coat that Georgie lent him tighter around his lithe frame, Jon walks at a brisk pace down a surprisingly uncrowded street of the city. His mind is rampant with worries, most of which are being caused by the last statement he listened to, but he also can’t help but feel uneasy in general while on his afternoon walk, convinced that this level of seclusion, especially in _London_ of all places, is deeply unnatural. He shakes his head, feeling silly for getting into such a tizzy over something so foolish. No, the streets aren’t abnormally empty like he thinks they are, it’s just… it’s _lunchtime,_ so everyone in the city is probably in restaurants or in office break rooms right now having a meal. Nevermind the fact that the street is usually busier than ever at lunchtime; Jon will take what comfort he can get in these trying times. Even so, he can’t keep himself from slowing down his pace as he watches a large, shoddy excuse for a delivery truck approach him from out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively he hunches in on himself more, his brain telling him to look and act small, even if he isn’t regressed at the moment. Of course, this makes Jon wear a scowl in no time flat, irritated by the classification in his brain trying to override all rational thought.

Not that looking big or small is going to help him, as to Jon’s quiet dread, the delivery truck slows down the moment whoever is driving catches sight of him, the car just fast enough to reach the end of the street and swerve to the right before he can reach the end of the road, parking itself dead in the middle of the crosswalk ahead of Jon. The archivist pauses, his blood feeling frozen and thin as he reads the words painted onto the side of the truck; _Breekon and Hope Delivery._ He considers running for it- considers turning tail and booking it back to Georgie’s apartment, or to the nearest crowded restaurant where he can call Elias to come get him- but he knows, deep down inside of himself, that it would be useless to try. If these pe- _creatures_ want to talk to him, then Jon has no choice but to let them. He knows he can’t outrun them, not forever at least. With his head held high in mock bravado, he marches forward with purpose, all while internally praying to some higher power- perhaps the monstrous eye that’s cursed him down this path of torment- that he will somehow survive this encounter. As Jon draws closer to the truck, struggling all the while to keep his own mind in check, two men hop out from the passenger and driver seats of the van, coming to stand on the side of the truck that the archivist can see.

The minute Jon’s within earshot without having to shout, one of the men greets him. “‘Scuse me, mister!” The man says, waving him over like a friendly neighbor or old friend.

“Are you Jonathan Sims?” The other man adds onto his partner’s question, forming what might constitute as a smile on his face.

To an outsider, one might think that the duo is just being polite while asking for some kind of help, or greeting someone they know, but Jon can see the unnatural pull of their smiles, too wide and thin to be anything but monstrous. He dry-swallows, his hands growing clammy in his pockets. “Um… y-yeah, wh-” He doesn’t get to finish, as before he can, he receives a hard punch to the gut, which sends him crumbling to the asphalt in a heartbeat.

“Miss Orsinov wants to see you.” The first man explains, still smiling. He crouches down, and rather effortlessly, he picks the archivist up and tosses him over his shoulder, not even reacting when Jon begins to kick him with all his might.

Jon opens his mouth to scream, but he gets punched in the mouth before he can get anything more than a choked yelp out, the blow causing him to bite his tongue. “Hush now,” The second man orders, tone just as harsh as his swing. “Miss Orsinov says she changed her mind.”

At that Jon freezes, a dawning horror overtaking him, causing the short man to shiver with dread. “No, I-I-” He’s hardly had any time to look for, much less _find_ the skin suit. Is he really out of time so soon?

Again, he isn’t given much time to process what’s going on, as without warning, the man carrying Jon effortlessly tosses him into the back of the delivery van, and without even tying their prisoner up or securing him to anything inside- thank god the boot is empty- the duo shuts and locks the door in an instant, washing the archivist in darkness.

Jon sits there for a few seconds, listening to his kidnappers hop back into the car upfront and start it up. He tries to open his mouth- to say something, _anything-_ but his throat feels too dry to form words.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid;_ why didn’t he run while he had the chance!? It all happened so _fast,_ and he was so _scared,_ he just… it doesn’t matter. Now he’s been kidnapped, and seeing as Georgie just helped him move out of her place, and the institute doesn’t expect him to check in all that often anymore… Jon gulps, shaking harder than he’d like to admit as the severity of his situation sinks in. Orsinov has run out of patience, so she’s probably going to kill him now. Will anyone even know what _happened_ to him, or will he end up as yet another anomaly in this world that no one will even _bother_ trying to solve? Doing his best not to make too much of a racket, for fear of his kidnappers being just as impatient as their employer, Jon crawls into one of the back corners of the delivery truck, curling up with his knees against his chest. He’s tempted to vent to his tape recorder about all of this, but he wants to save as much memory on it as he can; he will _not_ let his death be a silent affair. Although it’s difficult to commit to such a thing, Jon eventually lies down, still curled up, and tries to rest his eyes, if only so he’ll be better rested for the trials ahead of him. In the end he hardly sleeps, only napping in short spurts, but all the while, he never feels the truck turn or swerve, his sleep undisturbed save for his own horrific nightmares keeping him awake.

* * *

Jon isn’t sure how much time has passed since he last fell asleep. He knows that he’s out of the truck and upright, his forearms and torso tied expertly to a wooden chair while his mouth is tightly gagged. Slowly, he opens his eyes, drowsy and disoriented as he takes a look around. He sees a variety of large, pale figures surrounding him on all sides, their expressions and features unreadable since he lost his glasses sometime during the transport over here. Is he about to be killed by a huge, naked cult? _What a way to go._ As Jon squints his eyes at one figure in particular, trying so, _so_ hard to see what he knows he can’t, he hears footsteps approaching him from behind. He goes rigid, ready to be beaten or assaulted by whoever tied him up, but to his surprise, the person behind him places his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, adjusting them neatly on his scarred face so he can see better. Jon blinks a few times, giving his head a light shake, and all at once, he wishes he had stayed half blind. All around him he sees nothing but tall, ominous wax statues, none of them clothed but all of them grinning at him, something about them feeling so _alive,_ yet not. Before long, the woman of the hour- Miss Nikola Orsinov herself- comes twirling out from behind Jon, circling around to face him with a truly devilish grin on her pale, plastic face.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Orsinov practically chirps, that wide smile of hers never waning. “Did you sleep well? I do hope the boys weren’t _too_ rough with you; can’t have that beautiful skin getting damaged before I've peeled it, now can we?” Almost gently, she lays a hand on Jon’s cheek, following him when he flinches away from her touch. “Oh, don’t _fuss!_ I haven’t hurt you _yet,_ Archivist!” She says, tracing a few of the faded scars on Jon’s face, paying special attention to the spots that the worms left behind over a year ago, poking and prodding at them with an air of curiosity. “Goodness… such _beautiful_ skin you have! And it’ll only become more beautiful after we give you a little lotion.”

Jon tries to ignore what Orsinov is saying for his own sake, focusing instead on trying to loosen the rope around his wrists. If he could just get his hands free, he could-

“Ah ah _ah!”_ Orsinov scolds him in such a soft, sing-song tone, it makes Jon want to puke. She reaches around the restrained man, cupping her hands over his. Positioned like this, her face is right beside his, but no body heat emits from the hard plastic of her cheek. “Now now, you mustn’t be thrashing around so much, my dear Archivist! I swear, it’s like you _want_ _me_ to hurt you… well, perhaps you _might;_ self-preservation has never been your kind’s strong suit, now has it?” She laughs, amused by the cruel joke.

Jon just rolls his eyes, which earns him a painful pinch to one of his cheeks.

“You stay _right there,_ Archivist,” Orsinov orders, taking great amusement in Jon’s suffering as she stands back up to her full height, her hands on her hips as she grins down at the man. “I’ll be _right_ back!”

Orsinov leaves in a hurry, disappearing into the crowd of wax figures without even telling her victim what she plans on doing to him now that he’s conscious. Offhandedly, Jon wonders if she’s running off to get whatever tools she plans on using to kill and skin him, but he figures he isn’t _that_ lucky; he expects a whole lot more gloating and embarrassment before he finally dies. For what feels like hours he sits alone in that crowded yet empty room, a sense of unbearable boredom coming to rest at the forefront of his mind. God, what he wouldn’t give for a statement right now, if only so he could lose himself in another doomed soul’s story. Jon sighs behind his gag, eyelids beginning to droop. Even after the long car ride he’s _still_ exhausted, but then again, he’s hardly gotten anything close to good sleep in the last year, so it’s no real surprise that he’s tired most of the time. Maybe if he’s lucky, the afterlife will grant him a few millennia of peace and quiet. Just as Jon is reaching his breaking point with boredom, he hears footsteps approaching again, and without meaning to, he perks up, excited at the prospect of something happening, even if it might be his execution.

Orsinov appears from between the same set of wax figures she escaped through earlier, her smile still impossibly wide as she steps into the empty circle surrounding her prisoner. Behind the avatar she's dragging along what looks like a large, red wagon, the sight reminding Jon of a similar one he took with him everywhere as a small child. At that, he shakes his head in a frenzy. No no no, he is _not_ about to regress during his final moments alive! He isn’t given much more time to worry about his headspace as Orsinov parks her wagon a few feet away from the archivist, pulling off a white sheet to reveal… _what the_ _hell?_ Jon tilts his head slightly at the sight, eyeing what he thinks is a metal tub of some kind. Is she planning on boiling him alive? That doesn’t sound quite right, especially if she still wants… his _skin,_ apparently. He shivers, terrified to be skinned alive, but it must be a better way to go than a few other deaths, right? Better than a number of things he’s read from the archives, that's for sure. Orsinov ignores her victim’s increasing levels of anxiety as she goes about picking up the metal tub and setting it on the floor, pulling out a few plastic bottles and a scrubbie from inside. Oh, so she’s… she’s going to _bathe him,_ is she? Again, Jon feels awkward and small, unable to keep from squirming in his seat.

Orsinov notices this rather quickly, smirking over her shoulder at him. “Are you _squeamish,_ Archivist? No need to worry; I’ve seen so many skins, they’re all wonderful in their own ways, so you have nothing to be embarrassed about! Either way, you are simply _filthy,_ and I can’t be wearing a dirty skin to the big dance, now can I?”

Jon can’t say he agrees, subconsciously crossing his legs in a weak attempt to keep his captor from seeing him naked.

Orsinov just laughs, shaking her head at the sight. “Such a _shy_ thing… you act just like one of your kind’s Littles!” She says, not noticing the way that Jon tenses up at the comment. Instead she strides over to him, beginning to fuss with his bindings. “Now don’t try to run away, or you’ll very much regret it~!”

As the ropes come undone, Jon feels some part of himself relax while another grows taut with worry, goosebumps coming to cover his forearms. Orsinov doesn’t give him the opportunity to have any sort of agency in this situation, as without warning, she picks him up and carries him over to the tub, which has mysteriously been filled with warm, bubble-covered water. She doesn’t dunk him in right away though, setting Jon down on his feet near the tub as she starts to unbutton what she can of his clothes. At this he can’t help but start physically resisting her, squirming and fidgeting as he tries to get away, but it does him little good. Just as his button-up is being pulled off, revealing his bare chest- _thank god he got top surgery last year, or this would be a thousand times worse than it already is-_ Jon throws himself away from the avatar using all of his strength, tossing in a few kicks for good measure. Orsinov, frustratingly enough, remains undeterred by his flailing; if anything, she seems _amused_ by his pitiful attempts to get away from her, giggling under her breath as she finishes getting his trousers down, using his kicking to her advantage to get them all the way off. Finally, Jon is in nothing but his pants, socks, and shoes, and he can’t say he’s very happy about it. He frees his hands in order to cover his crotch, terrified to be stripped of the last of his clothing.

“NO!” Jon screams as loud as he can through the gag, the barrier living up to it’s name when he nearly chokes on his own saliva from shouting.

Finally Orsinov reacts to the man’s rebellious behavior, but not in any way that Jon might’ve expected. Without so much as blinking, the plastic woman grabs him by the arm, turns him slightly, and delivers five quick swats to the seat of his pants, before promptly tugging them down. Jon has no time to react as Orsinov practically _throws_ him into the small tub, only his legs and head sticking out as he tumbles inside. She disposes of his shoes and socks with relative ease, pushing the man’s feet into the water once she’s done, and within seconds, it’s as if the last few minutes never happened. Orsinov’s chipper mood is back in full swing as she rolls up the sleeves of her tailcoat and grabs the nearby scrubbie, wetting it before she pours a generous amount of sweet smelling soap onto the cleaning implement. All the while, Jon can’t meet his captor’s eyes, equal parts embarrassed as he is afraid. Even _with_ the water and bubbles hiding most of him from the avatar’s glassy, lifeless gaze, he still cups his hands over his genitalia, his heartbeat speeding up to a terrifying pace at the thought of being harassed for his lack of a penis and balls. He knows, deep down, that Orsinov probably doesn’t care either way, but he can never be too careful these days.

“You’re awful quiet, Archivist,” Orsinov comments, her smile waning just a tad. “It isn’t in your nature to be so quiet… are you afraid of being taunted over the state of your body? I already said you’re quite beautiful,” She pets his cheek again, her plastic fingers causing him to shiver. “Such _lovely_ skin… you've lived a very exciting life, haven't you?”

Jon blushes, looking away with a scowl. He grumbles something into his gag, glaring daggers at the water that reaches all the way up to his neck.

Orsinov manages a chuckle, but for some reason it doesn’t sound as genuine as it did earlier. “You're such a sad, _pathetic_ little thing, Archivist… so destructive and damaged. Perhaps you should be grateful that I’ve taken you. After all, if I hadn’t chosen you as my new coat, you probably would have killed yourself by the hands of some other monster within the year.”

Jon takes a shaky breath, not wanting to have this conversation. He already _knows_ that his life is bullshit; he doesn’t need a fucking abomination of nature to remind him, but it’s not like that will shut her up anytime soon.

“Has anyone ever taken proper care of you, Archivist? In a _gentle_ fashion, at least? Because you act like no one has ever loved you before,” Orsinov says, and her words are so abrupt in the otherwise quiet room, they cause her prisoner to flinch, splashing a bit of water out of the tub. She doesn’t bother commenting on this, continuing with her observation instead, curious to see how the man will react. “Am I _wrong,_ Archivist? Has anyone ever loved you before? I’m no omnipresent eye, but even _I_ can sense your… _delicateness,_ I suppose. You flinch at even the gentlest of touches, scream when you don’t understand things, run at the slightest hint of rage; how on _earth_ have you survived this long?” As Orsinov speaks, she begins idly scrubbing Jon’s shoulders and arms, but it’s half hearted at best, her mind more focused on waiting for the man's answer than cleaning him.

When Jon only mumbles indignantly some more through his gag, Orsinov chuckles- realer than anything this time- and with a wave of her hand over the cloth in her victim’s mouth, the gag is gone. Jon gives a few coughs toward the water, trying to catch his breath before he tries to speak, but even when he does, it’s far more hoarse and hesitant than he’d like it to be. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jon lies, voice low as he glares still at Orsinov, not quite as afraid as he should be right now. She doesn’t seem keen on killing him just yet, so why should he hold his tongue or gestures? She clearly isn’t going to compose herself, so he won’t offer her the same hospitality.

“Yes you do,” Orsinov is quick as a whip with her reply, eyes not meeting Jon’s, too fixated on his scarred arms as she lightly traces the scrubbie over them one at a time, eyes alight with something the archivist can’t quite describe. “You’re sad and alone, and no matter how hard you may try, you can’t keep a positive relationship to save your life. You’re so _lonely,_ I’m surprised the Lukases hasn’t gotten to you yet, but then again, Elias has been smart with you… he knows you’d be a prodigy in the hands of any one of us, but _he_ found you _early,_ kept you sheltered in that cage he calls an institute,” She actually scowls now, causing Jon to pull away slightly, disturbed by the sudden change in her mood. “He really did find the _perfect_ archivist… self-destructive enough not to care about himself, too stubborn to run from a challenge, just fearful enough to bow his head when he gives the word, and oh so bloody _curious!_ You really _are_ such a _helpless_ thing, aren’t you? And still, I can’t help but wonder… has he tended to you in order to keep you in his Sight? Has he found something out about you that no one else has, that keeps you loyal to him despite it all?” A pause, and then- “Are you one of your kind's Li-”

Jon doesn’t hear the rest of what Orsinov says, static buzzing through his ears, but it’s not the restless presence of the distortion to make him think he’s hallucinating; no, it’s the all too familiar beginnings of a panic attack overtaking all five of his senses. It’s not like panic attacks are anything new to Jon, especially within the last two years working at the institute, but he’s worked so hard to hide them from everyone, and this is his first time breaking since- _he’s back to his third week as the head archivist, curled up under a desk that feels too big for him and bawling all by himself, having held off his breakdown just long enough for everyone else to go home. At least… he THINKS everyone else has gone home by now. Abruptly, as he’s wetting his trousers and making a mess that he believes he'll have to clean up by himself once he's big again, Jon hears the door to the archives open. He flinches like a wild rabbit, smashing his head into the desk so hard that it causes a loud wail to escape his lips. Within seconds the trespasser is within sight, and to the archivist’s horror, it’s his BOSS. Elias simply stares at him for some time, his face unreadable, and without a word, he reaches out to Jon and drags him out by his arms, pulling him into a tight hug despite the younger of the two’s soaked trousers. Jon stays frozen in place, too scared to move or speak, so it’s up to Elias to talk instead, his voice low and comforting in the deafening quiet of the archival office._

_“It’s okay now, Jon… I know you can’t help it,” Elias whispers, so kind, so loving; for a moment, Jon forgets who the man in this daydream is to him these days- the things he’s done to him, the things he's put him through- and without thinking, he cries out and hugs his boss back, his hands clutching desperately at the older man’s jacket. “Shh… let it out, little one. I’m here now.” Elias assures, rubbing his employee’s back until he’s fast asleep._

Back in reality, Jon comes out of his stupor to feel wetness on his cheeks. He wants to pretend it was from the bathwater, but he knows this isn’t the case. His voice hitches and gasps, heavy sobs just _begging_ to break free, but he won’t let them- _can’t_ let them- be heard, not in a place like this. Although it’s pathetic looking, especially from his perspective, Jon tries to shuffle as far away from Orsinov as he can, though he doesn’t dare try to get up and run, not when there’s nowhere to go or hide. She’s right, isn’t she? He _is_ the perfect pawn; skittish but brave, perfect for anything that Elias wants from him. Does that mean it was all _truly_ a lie? All of the quiet breaks spent napping in Elias’ office, the visits to his boss’s house over the weekend, the occasional bottle-feedings when he just couldn’t keep his head on straight… was it all for naught? Was he just using Jon’s classification against him to further his own agenda? Ever since Jane Prentiss nearly killed him, Jon has suspected such a thing on and off, but here, being bombarded with doubts by an unsympathetic monster that’s forced him into such a vulnerable position, it’s just too much to ignore anymore. Jon tries to stop himself, but it’s no use, and within a few seconds he’s crying softly to himself as big, fat tears spill down his cheeks and fall to mix with the bathwater.

Orsinov, in the meantime, has the most unreadable expression on her porcelain face, and for that Jon is glad. She just… keeps washing him, oddly enough, not saying a word about the state he’s in. He was expecting disgust or mockery, or maybe even violence, but not what seems like indifference. Does she even _care_ that he’s having a complete mental breakdown right in front of her? Maybe she _likes_ to see him cry; the tears might make his skin better, or something equally as fucked up. The rest of the bath is done within only a few minutes, and by the time it’s over Jon is fighting with himself not to yawn, tuckered out by his fit as it comes to an end. Orsinov remains silent, but her face has finally changed somewhat, her expression turning almost _sour,_ a stark contrast to her usual demeanor. Through his tears, Jon watches her like a hawk, feeling a sense of unease overtake him as he studies her face. Is she angry with him? She must be, after all his sobbing and “fussing” as she put it earlier; she’ll probably kill him the moment he’s out of the tub. Jon still doesn’t _want_ to die, not really, but it _has_ to be better than staying in such an unloving world, right? No one cares for him here. Well, there’s Martin, but he still doesn’t know he’s a Little, and Jon will be damned if the other man ever finds out. Only Elias and Georgie know, and with any luck, it will stay that way, even in death.

Of course, knowing his own streak of bad luck and tragedy, Jon doubts he’ll be that fortunate. No, he’ll probably be on the front page of tomorrow’s paper- _[Tragic! Orphaned Little Jonathan Sims Skinned Alive by Unknown Assailant!]-_ and then everyone will know his big, awful secret. Life just isn’t fair, at least not for him, though it's a truth he's struggled to cope with.

“I didn’t mean to _break you,_ Archivist… well, I wanted to at least _try,_ but I didn’t imagine I’d be right about you being a Little,” Orsinov’s voice is quiet when she speaks, as if she’s afraid to break Jon any further, which she just might be. “Imagine my surprise when I see that you _are_ one! Hm, what to do, what to do… I suppose I still ought to skin you, but I can’t say I’ve ever worn something so _taut_ before! My, I wonder if I’d even _fit,_ you being so tiny and all,” Offhandedly, Jon realizes that Orsinov is making up an excuse not to kill him, but for some reason that doesn’t really dispel the fear in his heart like it should. “In any case… you really _do_ need some lotion on you, and who am I to leave such _gorgeous_ skin in this condition?” She finally drains the tub- where the water goes, Jon has no idea- and plucks him right out.

Jon begins shivering immediately, the crisp autumn air present even indoors. He’s so busy shaking that he forgets about his nudity, using his arms to hug himself instead of covering his genitals again. Orsinov ends up laying him down on a towel soon enough, and all too suddenly, the archivist feels so, _so_ much smaller than before, the position he's in reminding him of a diaper change. Whether or not he’s about to get one is yet to be decided, as Orsinov seems more preoccupied with using a second towel on Jon, dabbing him dry with all of the gentleness a mother might show her newborn child. Jon closes his eyes, trying to push such infantile thoughts aside, but it’s hard when he feels so raw and exposed, without even the energy to be anything but exhausted. Orsinov finishes drying him soon enough, moving onto her next treatment for the man’s body; lotion. As the cap is popped off, Jon gets a good whiff of it, his shoulders relaxing as the scent of freshly washed bed sheets and lavender reaches his nose. He takes a breath of it in, only to shudder as Orsinov takes a dab of it and starts rubbing it on his chest. She chuckles at his reaction, finally breaking the dreadful, tense silence that had been plaguing her and her victim beforehand.

“Sorry it’s a bit cold, little Archivist,” Orsinov says, and for some reason she actually sounds the slightest bit apologetic, but like with most avatars Jon’s met, it feels just a bit too off to be considered true. “Unfortunately I can’t really warm it any… no body heat and all, I’m sure you understand.”

Jon doesn’t answer, as Orsinov’s gently massaging hands have him dozing in and out of consciousness, his fatigue finally catching up with him. Sure, the plastic woman’s hands are cold at first, but they warm up quickly against his skin, making the process all the more soothing. It’s strange, this whole situation- getting massaged from head to toe in lotion by a monster that may or may not want to wear his skin like a coat- but Jon can’t bring himself to feel as afraid as he ought to. He’s just so _tired,_ and everything feels far away right now. It only occurs to him as Orsinov is moving onto his arms and legs that he’s slipping into littlespace, but even _then_ he can’t really struggle, too deep in this hole to do anything but sink further down and accept his fate. A few more minutes pass in relative peace, though Orsinov keeps up a steady chatter to herself, most of which doesn’t reach Jon in his current state, but he nods every so often anyways, feeling like nothing more than a sleepy toddler in desperate need of a nap. Soon enough the massage is done, Jon waiting in silence for whatever comes next. Will he be skinned now? Is he still even _getting_ skinned? If this is the end for him, at least it was spent being taken care of for the first time in… _huh._ He actually doesn’t _remember_ the last time Elias acted as his caregiver; not since before the Leitner incident, at least.

“There we go, nice and clean and _wonderfully_ moisturized!” Orsinov says, so cheerful that Jon almost forgets how dangerous she is. “Of course, if we want your skin to _truly_ be perfect, we’ll need to keep this up for quite awhile. Why, it may take _months_ before you’re ready to be peeled!”

Jon manages to nod his head a bit, wanting nothing more than to just sleep already. This makes Orsinov laugh, the avatar giggling as she ruffles her prisoner’s long, messy black hair. “Such a _quiet_ baby… I must say, my dear Archivist, I _much_ prefer you like this, so sweet and well-behaved! Now, let’s get you in something a little more… _age appropriate.”_

Orsinov rummages around through her wagon, looking for something that the man can wear, but Jon just can’t keep up with her anymore, and before he can see what his captor plans on dressing him in, he’s fast asleep on the floor, dozing off into a gentle, undisturbed sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you guys liking this so far? I’m not quite done with S3 yet, but I should be within the next few weeks, so please don't spill any spoilers about the season finale! Either way, I can’t wait to work on this some more. Have an awesome day, and please consider commenting if you’ve got the time, but no pressure!


	2. Pitiful Little Thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys were literally so nice to me in the comments of the first chapter, I have no choice but to continue being self-indulgent and keep writing this nonsense. Hope you like this chapter!

Even with as tired as he is, Jon only stays asleep for a few hours at the most, a nightmare being the thing that shakes him awake. He ever so slowly cracks his eyes open, staring silently into the darkness all around him. Luckily for him, the walls are painted with two somewhat bright colors, and even in the dark he can still sort of see his surroundings. Jon bites back on a yawn, making a move to sit up, but to his terror, his arms won’t support him; every time he tries to push himself up, his elbows quiver and ache, until finally they give in, dropping him soundlessly back down to the soft ground, which he suspects is a mattress. He tries standing up next, but it’s just as hopeless, and after a few more pitiful attempts, the archivist has no choice but to save his strength and wait. Huffing under his breath, Jon manages to roll onto his side, taking a look around the room while he waits for his strength to return to him. Again, the walls are brightly painted in what’s either grey and white or some other combination of slightly lighter colors. There are shapes scattered across the walls, immobile and still, making Jon shiver, though he doesn’t feel any sort of presence coming off of them. However, the walls aren’t what actually has the majority of his attention; no, that goes to the long, slender bars in front him, with spaces wide enough that he can see through them, but too tight for him to get anything more than an arm through.

Rolling onto his back, Jon sees that not only does his cage not have a roof of any kind, but that there’s a mobile spinning over his head. All at once the archivist feels nothing but dread, a fear like no other overtaking every inch of his body and soul. Has he been taken away by an _adoption agency?_ It’s not exactly _illegal_ for Littles to live alone and without a Caregiver of some kind, but it’s certainly frowned upon by most of society, and if he were to be reported as erratic and in need of the government’s help… that’s all it would take to get him put up for adoption. Honestly, it’s probably one of the reasons he’s so careful around Elias; one wrong move and he could be reported. With nothing else to think about in this unfamiliar place, Jon’s mind drifts back to the day he came of age and received his classification letter in the mail, the then sixteen year old sitting on the couch beside his grandmother as he opened it. He remembers the excitement when he saw the envelope, then the all encompassing _fear_ when he read it’s contents… Grandma had been so disappointed, but really, when _wasn’t_ she? She died within the year, and nearly every teacher Jon came into contact with suggested that he put himself up for adoption, that he get some help, but he turned them all down, determined to be something more than a stranger’s baby doll. It’s what led him to college, to Georgie, to getting a job; he wanted to be _big,_ and he’d be damned if he wasn’t.

And yet here he is, trapped in a crib and feeling so, _so_ small, smaller than the world he’s trying to save. Was it all for _nothing?_ Should he have even _tried_ being big? What did it even _get him_ in the end? A few friends who have all either begun to hate him or have died, just because he knew them? A job as a puppet for some omnipresent god that doesn’t give a damn about him or his feelings? Jon can’t keep back the sob that escapes his throat, but he at least gets to slap a hand over his mouth almost as soon as the sound comes out. No, he’s not going to cry over something so childish, so trivial. Him being a Little is a one in a million chance, but like _hell_ is he going to consider it as anything more than another weight wrapped around his ankles, pulling him down towards failure and defeat. He refuses to do anything but succeed; he’s going to stay big, stay strong, and he won’t let anything or anyone stop him, not now, not after all he’s accomplished and all he’s survived. He’s Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, and he is going to get out of here, one way or another. With a determination like no other, Jon grabs one of the crib bars with both hands, and with all the strength he can muster, he pulls himself upright, straining and gasping the whole time. The _minute_ his chin is over the bars, a door unlocks, and before the archivist can so much as blink, his sight is being bombarded by the most blinding of bright lights.

The pain lasts longer than Jon would like. He’s quick to shut his eyes of course, save himself from damn near going blind, but there’s little more he can do but wince and wait it out. In the meantime, an all too familiar voice giggles in a playful tone, making his ears ring from the pure offness of it. “Silly baby, trying to get up all by himself. I should really get myself a camera; you’re just _too cute,_ little Archivist!” Orsinov teases, her usual sing-song doing nothing to ease her prisoner’s newfound headache.

“Where the _hell_ am I?” Jon asks, trying so hard to add some extra energy and authority to his voice. He’s still a bit nervous about- what did Elias call it? _Compelling_ people?- but he tries nonetheless, only realizing once the words have left his mouth that it might not work on Orsinov.

Orsinov seems to consider Jon for a moment, and even with his vision gone at the moment, he can practically _hear_ her head tilting at him. “You’re… you’re doing that _thing,_ aren’t you? The thing that Elias loves to do so often! Oh, such a _naughty_ boy, aren’t you? Your questions won’t get any answers from _me,_ darling, at least not without my consent!”

Jon goes a few shades redder with embarrassment than he’d care to admit, but instead of responding to his kidnapper, he focuses on getting his vision back instead, managing to get his eyes open comfortably again without the light burning his retinas. He regrets it almost immediately though, feeling sick when he sees where he is.

The room he’s in is truly and utterly _massive,_ looking more like an empty cubicle space than the nursery it’s been fashioned into, because that’s what it is; a bloody _nursery._ As Jon suspected, the walls are indeed painted with only two colors, horizontal lines of red and yellow going from the middle of the ceiling to where the wall meets the floor, looking akin to the huge circus tent from Dumbo. Offhandedly, Jon is tempted to give a bitter laugh, but he manages to hold it in; it figures that the Stranger would go all in with her circus aesthetic, even for something as silly as this. Looking closer at the walls, the shapes that he feared were monsters end up being nothing more than decals of cartoon circus animals- tigers, elephants, and gorillas just to name a few- spread all across the wall, both big and small, making the nursery almost look like some kind of indoor carnival. If that weren’t telling enough to Orsinov’s involvement, the crib Jon’s been trapped in for god knows how long is, in great contrast to the rest of the room, painted purely white, the mobile above him flying little Dumbos in a slow, continuous circle, a built-in speaker playing “Baby Mine” on repeat. The archivist can’t keep back his shiver, wanting nothing more than to look down and see what Orsinov may have done about his clothes, but he doesn’t think his heart could take it. He doesn’t _feel_ naked, so he’ll assume it’s fine. _For now._

“Do you _like it,_ little one?” Orsinov asks, leaning on the crib as she smiles down at Jon so _gently,_ one might mistake her for being affectionate if they mistook her for anything close to human. “Can’t say I had much time to decorate, even with you taking such a big nap, but… it’s very _befitting,_ isn’t it? My sweet, innocent little Dumbo, ready to soar through the air like a birdie~!” At that she plucks him out of the crib, squeezing the man in a tight hug; her plastic frame has no give, making the embrace all the more uncomfortable for her prisoner.

 _“P-Please_ let me go!” Jon manages through grit teeth, finding it very difficult to speak since his face is being squished against Orsinov’s chest.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Orsinov says, holding Jon over her head like he’s the ‘little Dumbo’ she keeps insisting he is, which is a welcome change if he’s gonna be honest; better than being crushed like a soda can. She skips her way to the center of the small nursery, the room empty save for the crib, giving her plenty of room to do whatever she wants, but apparently not enough if her next words are anything to go off of. “How about we do something _fun,_ little one? Something that we’ll _both_ enjoy!” She suggests, and without waiting for an answer, she slowly begins to dance in place, still holding Jon up in the air.

Before Jon’s eyes, the nursery melts away, but he doubts that it’s gone forever. He always thought that only the Spiral could affect their immediate surroundings, but apparently not, as the Stranger seems perfectly capable of at least a _little_ physical distortion. The nursery slowly slips away, the walls running black with long streaks of ink as the light sources all morph into one huge, nauseatingly bright spotlight overhead, the light so hot that Jon can smell burnt dust in the air. He squints his eyes in a grimace, looking down to the floor in order to avoid the glare, but the sight is equally as unwelcome below him, if not more-so. The walls have given way to what looks almost like endless darkness highlighted by red curtains, and from the dark there are odd shapes moving within them, skipping closer and closer, until finally some features can be made out through the shadows. The wax figures- Jon can see that they're the same ones from earlier, making his heart sink deep into the pit of his stomach with fear- dance in tandem to their master, wearing nothing more than red leotards and a bit of makeup on their molded faces. At least they aren’t wearing any skin; Jon doesn’t think he could handle the risk of seeing a familiar face right now. Orsinov ignores her side dancers completely, content to just hold the archivist like she’s playing “airplane” with him while she dances listlessly underneath the spotlight, her too-white face and chipper smile shining in the yellow light, nearly blinding the man in her company.

“You’re such a _lovely_ sight, little Archivist… if I weren’t so afraid of you tripping all over yourself, I’d consider teaching you how to _dance_ with us, but you’re far too little for that.” Orsinov whispers, though it’s unnecessary since no one alive is around to hear her but him, at least as far as Jon knows; god forbid someone sees him like this anytime soon.

Jon swallows around a lump in his throat, head heavy and body suddenly much weaker than it was earlier, his unsupported feet slowly beginning to wiggle in time to the rhythm Orsinov and her dancers have going. Something is _pulling_ at the archivist, begging him to dance, to _Close His Eyes_ and _Perform For Her,_ and with a start, he realizes that if Orsinov put him down right now, he’d probably do just that, and it wouldn’t even be on purpose. He would dance, sing, do whatever it took to keep this monster’s eyes on him and keep things gentle, keep a parental figure that might not abandon him like so many others have, but she keeps holding him up, not letting his feet anywhere near the floor. Does she _know_ that he would dance for her, if given the opportunity? He’s not about to tell her, mind you- he’s touch-starved and edging closer and closer to his littlespace, but he’d never _willingly_ betray his friends- yet it still puzzles him. A puzzle, thank god, is enough to snap Jon out of it, his legs no longer swinging like they were beforehand. Immediately Orsinov switches positions, holding the archivist gently on her hip, and it’s then that he understands that yes, she knows _full well_ what was going on inside his head, and _still_ she spared him. She could’ve had a willing skin, a willing dancer, but no… apparently, Jon isn’t going to be either of those things for her.

“Why are you doing this?” Jon asks, more to the world than to Orsinov herself, but at this point he’ll take an answer from anyone who’s willing to give him one.

“Doing _what,_ little Archivist?” Orsinov plays dumb, closing her eyes as she moves to that invisible beat still, her smile never waning. “Why am I dancing? Is that what you’re asking, little one? Me and my servants dance because we _like_ to, because it makes us feel _good!”_

Jon shakes his head, and with all the Compelling he can muster, he locks eyes with Orsinov, his own refusing to wet or weaken, not when he’s so desperate for answers. _“Why_ are you _doing this?”_ He repeats, far more insistent this time.

Orsinov doesn’t pause her dancing, not that Jon thought she would. Still, at least she stops ignoring his questions. “Truly? I can’t say I know,” She admits, her voice so damn close to sounding human that Jon thinks his Compelling actually _worked,_ but he’s not about to count his eggs until they hatch, and he has a feeling that this one didn’t crack naturally. “I wanted to skin you, to wear you and make that blasted Elias _suffer,_ but… something _changed. You_ changed, Archivist.” She’s quiet as she says it, almost like she’s embarrassed or ashamed, something that must feel so unnatural for a creature like her.

Jon knows what she means by that; it’s so obvious that it nearly bores him, because answers are almost never that simple. “So then…” He says, eyes on the avatar’s neck as he speaks, unwilling to look her in the eyes or at her chest. “What do you plan on doing to me?” He finally asks, voice shakier than he’d like it to be, but he can’t help it, not when Orsinov is still holding him so close to herself.

Orsinov giggles, the sound chilling to his ears. “Well, like I said, I _was_ going to wear you, but now… I think I’d prefer a _baby_ rather than a _coat!”_

“You… you _what?”_ Jon asks, too shell-shocked to fully register what she just said.

“You heard me, little one,” Orsinov teases, right back to being carefree now that she’s told him the truth, almost as if doing so has taken a great weight off her shoulders. “Before I just wanted your _skin,_ but now I want _all_ of you! Maybe I’ll make you a Dancer someday, but right now… right now, this is very nice, isn’t it? I bet you haven’t been held like this in a _very_ long time,” As if to prove her point, she cradles a hand behind Jon’s head, pushing him down to rest his cheek against her shoulder, the position soft, but steady all the same, refusing to make him feel anything close to insecure. “You like this, don’t you? Most Littles are supposed to… I must say, even when I may’ve been something close to your kind, I never gave much thought to your silly _‘classification’_ nonsense, but now I think I see the appeal!”

Jon doesn’t have anything he can really say to that, some infantile part of his brain short-circuiting at the position he’s in. Despite the porcelain under Orsinov’s clothes being cold as ice, there’s something still quite comforting about this, the archivist feeling a sense of relief like no other wash over him within just a few seconds of laying his head down. It’s true, he hasn’t been held like this in a long, _long_ time. Back in college, when he roomed with Georgie, she tried taking care of him. She’s no Caregiver- she’s a Switch, a far cry from what are often called the “family” classifications- but she _did_ try her best, and Jon still remembers when the two of them would lay down on the couch together, Georgie lying on her back with Jon resting on her chest, his face pressed to her neck. The relationship hadn’t lasted long- it never would have, not when he was still so detached from everyone, not when neither of them were right for each other- but he still looks back on those days with a bit of fondness. Somehow, Orsinov has managed to recreate that level of intimacy and warmth here, even without knowing how much it truly means to him. Is she right; are _all_ Littles really _like this?_ Is this just an _instinctual_ thing for him? Jon can’t be sure either way, as he never put too much research into his classification outside of the basics, but he still can’t help but feel unique in his experience. That’s what he gets, he supposes, for not interacting with others of his classification more.

“Still so quiet when you’re small… but you’re still _afraid_ of this, aren’t you? Maybe, once that passes, you’ll be a _different_ sort of baby for me… a little more _playful,_ if I’m lucky,” Orsinov murmurs, twirling around so fast it makes Jon’s head spin, but she never drops him; she’s too graceful to. “Until then, I suppose I’ll have to appreciate the quiet while I can. It’s certainly better than those naughty big boy questions!”

Jon can’t even nod or shake his head in response; he just stays like that, his chin pillowed against Orsinov’s shoulder, and for a brief, sincere moment, he thinks it’ll be okay. It’s a lie, he knows, but Little Jon doesn’t need to know that. The kid could use some comfort right now.

* * *

He gets hungry _fast._ Although he’s unable to ask on account of the pacifier stuck in his mouth- one of the Breekon and Hope men popped it into his mouth when he started asking questions again earlier, giving him a teasing wink and referring to his words as nothing more than “babbling”- Jon is fairly certain that Orsinov didn’t really take his need to eat into account before she decided to keep him. This, he thinks, is why the wax museum is in a bit of a tizzy at the moment, with skin-coated and makeshift monsters alike coming and going from the abandoned building, trying to bring their mistress different objects that might pass for food in whatever dimension they came from. So far, Jon has been offered human flesh, raw metal, and a basketball as snacks, but he’s turned his head at all of them, refusing to make himself sick or into a cannibal. Orsinov has been sympathetic to his plight- well, as sympathetic as something like her _can_ be- and has taken it upon herself to now judge everything before it’s offered to him. The last monster showed a bit of promise, if it can be called something other than dumb luck, as the wooden beast with half-stapled flesh on it’s body dragged a bush in earlier. Maybe if Jon’s lucky, it’ll bring a salad next. Orsinov isn’t as patient as him though, something that secretly amuses the archivist, but he’ll never say that to her face, especially when she’s chewing out one of her minions, her voice _inches_ away from a shout.

“No no no, absolutely _not!”_ Orsinov scolds in such a no nonsense tone that it makes Jon somewhat uneasy; she sounds a bit like his grandmother when she talks like that. “We _cannot_ feed the little Archivist something like _that!”_

The monster- a hodgepodge of craft paper and skin- glances between the sticky wad of dead bees, honey, twigs, and leaves in it’s hands and back up at Orsinov, it’s face expressionless, but Jon can practically _feel_ it’s confusion from where he’s sitting on his kidnapper’s lap.

 _“Why?_ Because it’s _inedible,_ you buffoon!” Orsinov explains, exasperated even as she smiles at her minion. “Now go dispose of that and bring back something a _human child_ can eat!”

The monster seems to sigh, before dutifully nodding it’s head and walking away from it’s mistress’ throne, the throne being an over glorified pedestal colored in the carnival’s colors of red and yellow and covered in pretty jewelry from the Stranger’s more better off victims. Once the creature has left, Jon glances cautiously up into Orsinov’s eyes, his own holding just a bit of sympathy for her.

“Don’t worry, little one,” Orsinov says, petting Jon’s hair oh so gently, as if she’s worried that he’s upset. “We’ll get you something yummy to eat soon… I’m afraid none of us have been human in a long, _long_ time. And some of us haven’t even been _that!”_

Jon gives a sympathetic nod, undeterred by the wait. In all honesty, he’s just glad he’s getting fed at all.

Before long, another monster returns to the museum, it’s plastic head held up high with an air of triumph. Jon perks up when he sees the creature, curious as to why it looks so proud of itself, and even without seeing what it has, he just _Knows_ it has something he can eat without it hurting him.

“Welcome back~!” Orsinov chirps for what must be at least the hundredth time in less than an hour, but her tone is just as happy as it’s been every time she’s said it. Gotta give her points for keeping her composure. “And what have _you_ brought, my pet? Something _good?”_

The monster nods, and with a low whistle- it has a few holes in it’s head, making it whistle every time it tries to speak- it holds up a watermelon to it’s mistress.

“Huzzah!” Orsinov cheers, taking Jon’s hands and clapping them in celebration. “Such a _wonderful_ servant you are! Go ahead and bring it here, darling.”

After giving it’s master the watermelon, the monster runs off, leaving Orsinov and her baby alone to do as they like with the gift it brought them. Jon gives the melon a hesitant look, unable to keep back a grimace. It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ watermelon- in fact, it’s probably one of his favorite fruits- it’s just that he has no idea how his captor plans on cutting it up for him without any tools. Orsinov remains in a chipper mood all the while, humming to herself as she lets go of Jon to hold the watermelon with both hands, and without so much as a wince or whimper, she breaks it perfectly in half in her big, snow white hands. It takes a lot of self-control for the archivist not to startle at the sight, but really, he knows he shouldn’t be _that_ surprised. Although Orsinov didn’t smack him that hard earlier before he was given his bath, he knows she’s a frighteningly _strong_ creature. With the hard part over, the porcelain woman begins breaking the watermelon into several smaller halves, until they’re finally small enough to not be a chore to get through. She smiles once she’s done, producing a silver plate from her pile of treasure to rest the spare slices on while she takes one and holds it up to the Little’s lips, her own curved up in a bright, expectant smile. Again, Jon hesitates, but he’s _so_ hungry, and he _does_ love watermelon… he takes a shy bite, averting his eyes as he chews on the sweet fruit.

Orsinov _beams,_ such _pride_ in her glassy eyes, it makes Jon all the more embarrassed when all he’s done is taken a bite of food. “Such a _good_ boy for me! Lookit you, eating right out of Mommy’s hands; you make her _so_ proud!” She says, pressing a quick, cold kiss to the man’s forehead as an additional reward.

Jon damn near chokes on his next bite of watermelon, caught off-guard by what Orsinov just called herself. Is she… is she _serious?_ He knows that she plans on keeping him for as long as she can- possibly even _after_ the Unknowing has occurred, if he’s still alive of course- but does she _truly_ see herself as his new mother? It’s been a long time since Jon had a mother, not that he really has the _capacity_ to remember her all that well; after all, he was only _four_ when she died. He does remember her in a few ways, though. He remembers bright colors on all her clothes and pretty ribbons tied in her hair, the low tones of her voice as she read passages from her fantasy books aloud to him while balancing the toddler on her hip, the dimples on her cheeks- the ones he inherited, that Grandma scowled at when he smiled too wide- when she laughed at something funny someone had said around her. Jon takes a few steady breaths, in-between which Orsinov continues to feed him the slice of watermelon, and against the archivist’s will, tears beginning dripping down his face, though he doesn’t sob, just keeps eating and silently crying. He hasn’t cried about his parents since he was in college, drunk off his ass and listening to his peers talk about their loving folks, but for some reason it’s just hitting him _so hard_ right now, gutting him like a fish and leaving him a weak, whimpering mess.

As he finishes the slice, Orsinov pauses, something in her artificial eyes hesitating when she looks at him, and for a moment, Jon panics, afraid he’s too much work for her, with all his constant crying and mental breakdowns. Is she about to send him away? Kill and skin him? Or is his skin not even worth it anymore? Although he’s a prisoner in this place, Jon finds himself desperately clutching to a handful of Orsinov’s too-sparkly outfit, not wanting to be abandoned for what feels like the millionth time in his life.

“You _poor_ thing…” Orsinov whispers, a genuineness in her voice making the man shiver and ache, unaccustomed to such kindness from anyone but Martin and Georgie. “So alone in the world, you can hardly even _imagine_ having someone who loves you stay. It’s okay, my little Archivist… Mommy won’t let you hurt like that _ever_ again, I promise.”

Jon _bawls,_ clinging to Orsinov so fast and so forcefully that he bangs his head against her shoulder, making his forehead pulse with pain. For a moment he’s scared that he might’ve damaged her, but her ceramic body stays strong, not even cracked or dented. The monster holds him so very carefully, getting one of her arms underneath his legs to cradle him, and offhandedly, Jon wonders how she’s so good at this. Was the original Nikola a _Caregiver?_ Maybe, but he wouldn’t know; it’s not in the institute’s nature to ask for the classifications of their statement givers unless they’re integral to the story. Not that it really matters to him; so long as she’s willing to do this for him, Jon doesn’t _care_ what her classification is, he just needs someone to hold him and never let go. They stay like that for a long time, and after awhile, the man opens his eyes, staring listlessly at his clothes in order to reorient himself. He’s dressed in long-sleeved, white footie pajamas that are covered in red, blue, and yellow polka dots, complete with red ruffles on the cuffs of his sleeves and around the collar of his shirt. Underneath is a diaper, of course, as Little Jon can’t hold it to save his life, something he’s glad his captor doesn’t have a problem with. Speaking of her, Orsinov slowly frees an arm from the embrace, careful not to let it bother her baby, and tentatively, she reaches for another watermelon slice, holding it a few inches away from Jon’s mouth.

“That was a very big cry, wasn’t it?” Orsinov is conversational as she speaks to the man, as if she’s commenting on the weather and not Jon’s second breakdown since he got here. “You must be _very_ thirsty after all of that, not to mention how hungry you are with how little you’ve eaten. Will you _please_ eat a little more, my baby? For _Mommy?”_

Jon would never resist her, even if he wanted to, and after giving Orsinov’s chest a slight nuzzle with his cheek, he eats another three slices of watermelon in utter silence.

Not that it’s completely quiet, as Orsinov coos and praises him all the way through, and despite being humiliated by it a half hour or so ago, Jon feels warmer now, too small to care. “Such a good boy for me~!” Orsinov cheers, giving the archivist a few bounces when he’s done. She glances down at his onesie, giggling when she sees how much red juice has gotten on it. “Goodness, such a _messy_ thing you are! Come along then, let’s get you all cleaned up.” She stands up, Jon in tow, and heads out of the main room of the museum, making her way to the bathroom she had Breekon and Hope set up for her earlier.

Jon clings to her the whole way there, face pressed against her top with such desperation, he’s half scared he’ll break apart if he’s made to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty quick update, huh? I dunno if I can keep this pace up, but I can sure as hell try! I hope you guys are enjoying this fic so far; feel free to tell me your thoughts in the comment section if you’d like to!


	3. Something Close to Domestic Bliss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I barely freaking edited this since I wrote a majority of it last night, but fuck it, y’all have gone without an update for long enough. So anyways, here’s me writing everyone OOC in an effort to give Jon a break.

It’s very warm in the nursery. It’s honestly a bit much most of the time, but Jon knows why Orsinov keeps it at such a high temperature; she’s overcompensating, trying to make up for the coldness of her shell. Because of the heat, the archivist awakes in a bit of a sweat this morning, rolling onto his back with a groan as he comes to. His whole body feels overheated, so in a blind spasm, he manages to get his onesie unzipped and kick it down to his ankles, leaving him in nothing but a diaper. Jon sighs, relieved as his body slowly cools down, and quietly, he opens his eyes and stares up at his mobile overhead, a loose smile forming on his lips. He never much cared for Disney movies- Grandma didn’t have the money to buy very many of them on VHS, and even as a small child her grandson felt too mature to enjoy them- but now Jon’s beginning to actually  _ like  _ a few of them, as kid movies seem to be Orsinov’s go-to distraction when she’s busy with her work. Probably because of the film’s association with the circus, Dumbo is quickly becoming Jon’s new favorite kid movie. He yawns under his breath, tempted to fall back asleep, but he’s spent enough time sleeping; he wants to get up soon. Sitting up in his crib, the archivist glances around the nursery, his ever-curious eyes scanning the room with a sense of contentment, happy that he can call this place his home.

The nursery has been expanded on greatly in the last week or so- Jon’s still a bit iffy on the time and date, not that he cares when he’s regressed most of the time- with a toy box, changing table, bookshelf, dresser, and rocking chair added into the mix, all of which are colored purely white to match the crib. Careful not to hurt himself in the process, Jon’s hands find the locking mechanism on his crib, and without much effort, he pops it open, helping to lower it down so it doesn’t make too loud of a noise. Orsinov has already told him he’s allowed out of bed first thing in the morning/after he’s done napping, but he has to stay in the nursery. That’s just fine by Jon, who has no intention of doing much until his caretaker comes to collect him. He slowly creeps down from his crib, bringing an old-fashioned Raggedy Ann doll with him. As expected with Orsinov, she has a great love of dolls and stuffed animals, and as a result she gifted her new baby an old Raggedy Ann she found, the toy becoming somewhat of a comfort item in the last few days. Jon clutches the doll- who he’s named Cadet so she’ll have her own, unique name- to his chest as he tries to stand up, only to have to sit down rather quickly, his knees aching in pain. Internally, the man sighs; he  _ really  _ wishes Orsinov would stop giving him muscle relaxants, but he knows she’s only doing it to keep her minions from worrying about him running loose.

With few options available this early in the day, Jon crawls over to the bookshelf, plopping down on the playmat nearby as he takes out one of the Look-n-Finds to keep himself occupied. “How many pages do you think we can finish before it’s time for breakfast, Cadet?” He asks himself, propping his stuffie up on his lap as he starts on the first puzzle.

Five and a half pages of completed puzzles later, Jon hears movement from outside his door. He pauses, eyes glancing up from his book, but when the footsteps only draw closer, he huffs and sets his book aside, hugging Cadet as he waits to see who it is.

To the archivist’s surprise, it’s Breekon and Hope who come to check on him, the two monsters dressed in their usual postmen outfits. “Mornin’, lil’ one.” Breekon greets in his usual accent, something that secretly amuses Jon when he’s feeling little.

“Miss Orsinov’s busy dis mornin’…” Hope continues, eyes glancing at Breekon, his gaze appearing uncertain.

“So you’re spendin’ it wid us.” Breekon finishes, the slightest bit of a smile on his face. He then strides across the nursery, scooping Jon up with little to no effort on his part.

Jon goes without complaint, used to Breekon and Hope’s presence by now. It’s not often that Orsinov has them babysit for her, as she prefers doing everything herself when it comes to her new baby, but when she’s busy with organizing the Unknowing, not much can be done on the matter. Secretly, Jon doesn’t much like being around the delivery men. It’s not that they’re mean to him or anything- they’re actually quite gentle with him, all things considered- but he knows that they feel…  _ odd  _ about him. Most everyone in the circus does, at least those of which are able to communicate, and even then, the ones who can’t talk are still watching from afar, expressions blank yet unnerving all the same. It makes Jon feel like an outcast, something he’s become all too accustomed to since… well, since he was a  _ literal  _ toddler. He was always the weird kid, the orphan without a filter that caused nothing but problems and had no friends. He used to almost revel in it, a sense of superiority filling his young, lonely mind, but it didn’t last, especially once he got into college and saw how “normal people” acted around each other, and he was forced to realize how much he truly  _ hated  _ being alone. It’s a shame that feeling never really went away, even after he joined the Magnus Institute.

Although the whole of the circus is still getting used to him, Jon finds comfort in the fact that, whether they like it or not, they’re  _ all  _ outcasts; he’s just the newest addition. It also helps that Orsinov has been  _ very  _ clear with her minions that if anyone so much as makes him  _ whimper, _ they’ll be nothing but dust by the time she’s through with them.

“Got somethin’ on your mind, junior?” Hope asks, breaking Jon out of his racing thoughts. When the human startles a bit, Hope chuckles, amused by his reaction.

“Real quiet when he’s little… it’s a relief if ya ask me.” Breekon says, keeping up a steady conversation with Hope as, without breaking eye contact with his partner, he feels the front and back of Jon’s diaper, making the man in his arms shiver, but not try to pull away.

“Probably still pretty shook up from everythin’; Miss Orsinov ain’t exactly da slow ‘n steady type.” Hope points out, coming to stand by Breekon’s side as the two of them walk over to the changing table.

Breekon shrugs, the movement strange coming from something Jon knows isn’t human. “She most certainly ain’t, Hope.” He agrees, laying his charge down on the changing table.

As Breekon pulls the disposable nappy open, Hope let’s out a loud cough. “Good  _ god, _ that’s bad!” He jokes, no real venom in his voice. Jon has learned, in the short time that he’s known Breekon and Hope, that they’re sort of like a comedy duo, with Hope playing as the comic relief and Breekon as the straight man.

Even with this all in mind, Jon still blushes, looking away to avoid either creature’s eyes. “Aw, don’t be mean to ‘im, Hope. He can’t help it none.” Breekon scolds, making quick work of cleaning Jon up before changing him into a new diaper with little elephants printed all over it.

“Doesn’t make it any less unpleasant.” Hope says, not bending on the matter.

Breekon rolls his eyes, making sure that the tape is on correctly before he sits Jon up, giving Hope a small smirk from out of the corner of his eye. “Alright, Hope… best to get da lil’ one dressed, dontcha agree?”

Hope lights right up, making a beeline for the nearby dresser. “Most certainly, Breekon! ‘Member, gotta put ‘im in somethin’  _ ‘cute’  _ today.”

“Cute, huh? Miss Orsinov must be plannin’ somethin’.” Breekon muses, all while he takes out a bottle of lotion and spreads some over the archivist’s arms, legs, and torso, as per routine.

“I’m thinkin’ da Unknowin’ might be soon.” Hope decides that must be what it is, the creature still digging through the dresser at a frightening speed, tossing aside anything he thinks isn’t cute enough for his mistress’s tastes.

“Maybe… but she might jus’ be in a fancy sorta mood.” Breekon offers up another reason, not wanting to jump to any conclusions. Once he’s done lotioning Jon, he turns around to face Hope, looking tempted to ask what’s taking so long… but it’s not his turn to speak again, so he can’t.

“Found it!” Hope cheers, holding up… oh  _ hell  _ no.

Jon was only half listening a few minutes ago, uninterested in what the parrot-like delivery men were chattering about, but now that he sees his morning outfit, he’s beginning to wish he had paid better attention so he could object. The outfit consists of a big, poofy green one-piece thing that reminds the man vaguely of those over eccentric Victorian get-ups he wore a few times back when he did Theatre back in college and high school. Horrified by what he’s looking at, Jon tries to subtly crawl off of the changing table and… where would he even  _ go?  _ He considers hiding under the crib, but last time he did that, he got a few good spanks from Orsinov for his trouble. To hell with the consequences, though; anything’s better than wearing that  _ monstrosity. _ Unfortunately, Jon is nothing if not far too expressive for his own good, and the minute Breekon glances at him, he knows it’s too late to run for it. Without so much as scolding the captive, Breekon grabs one of the sterilized wrap-around pacifiers from his pocket, and after making sure it’s indeed perfectly clean, he pops it into Jon’s mouth and clips it shut around his head, completely undeterred by the archivist’s immediate thrashing and screams. Hope, through all of this, just chuckles from the sidelines, again finding entertainment in the Little’s mannerisms.

“Easy, little one.” Breekon whispers, picking Jon up so that he can’t try crawling away, though it’s hard when the man in his arms refuses to hold still for him.

“I’m guessin’ he don’t like it none.” Hope jokes, laughing when Jon pauses his tantrum to glare daggers at him.

“Nope, but he’s still gonna wear it. Boss’s orders ‘n all that.” Breekon says so matter-of-factually, it’s as if his word is truly law.

Even with the mouth restraint in place and Breekon holding him, Jon still fusses as much as he possibly can, wanting no part of whatever stupid game involves him wearing that wretched excuse for an outfit. All his kicking only leads to Breekon holding him tighter, almost enough to bruise, but he’s clearly trying to hold back from doing so. As the captive man has observed before, all of the Stranger’s creations are outrageously strong, and he wants to keep from irritating them enough to lash out at him if he can help it. Sure, he knows Orsinov would lose her mind if he got so much as a boo-boo on his knee, but there’s no need to push her minions over the edge. After far longer than it should’ve taken, Jon finds himself wearing the angriest pout he can manage as he sits on the floor of his nursery, the dumb, poofy outfit perfectly adjusted on his lithe frame. He’s tempted to tear it off, but again, he isn’t about to get into trouble over this, at least outside of a fair amount of fussing and huffs. Breekon and Hope go back to chattering amongst each other while he fumes, Breekon brushing and tying Jon’s hair into a low ponytail while Hope gets a pair of jingly black booties on his feet, leaving the archivist looking  _ quite  _ adorable… to everyone else. Once the Little is dressed, Breekon picks him up again, making his way to the door of the nursery, but he pauses mid stride, stopping to crouch and pick up Cadet from where she was left on the floor.

“He’s gonna need ‘is dolly.” Hope points out, and where Jon expects the monster to tease and instigate him, Hope does no such thing. If anything, he seems more pleased than anything else, as if Orsinov isn’t the only servant of the Stranger that likes having a Little around.

“Most certainly, Hope. Can’t be missin’ his lil’ friend.” Breekon agrees, handing Jon the doll to hold while he continues to carry him out of the nursery, making sure to also remove his pacifier now that he’s stopped fussing.

Jon lays his head on Breekon’s shoulder as they walk out into the rest of the wax museum, the sound of loud construction and circus music making him shiver, but not jolt; he got used to the noise difference between this place and his nursery early on in his stay. Hope trails behind his partner, at first just wearing his usual easygoing smile, but when the little one meets his eyes, he smirks. Out of seemingly nowhere, Hope starts making faces at Jon, using his fingers to pull on his mouth and eyelids to make even more exaggerated expressions at him. Against his will, Jon let’s out a short laugh, unable to keep from playfully sticking his tongue out at Hope in return. This of course escalates the game, and by the time they all reach the main room of the building, the archivist is giggling uncontrollably while Hope looks as if he’s dislocated parts of his face. Breekon stops when he reaches his destination and pauses, looking over his unoccupied shoulder to check on Hope, his eyes widening comically at the sight. This makes Jon laugh even harder. With a short sigh, Breekon sets him on the floor so he can help Hope mold his face back into it’s proper place, leaving the human to his own devices for just a moment. Of course, if the delivery men had done their homework, they’d know that leaving Jonathan Sims to do as he pleases in  _ any  _ headspace is like leaving a dog unattended in a dog park; they will not be where you left them when you turn back around.

With his babysitters not paying as much attention to him as they should, Jon starts crawling off in no time flat, eyes wide as he investigates the room he’s in. The largest room of the wax museum has been renovated extensively since he first arrived, with the beginnings of a huge, wooden stage in the very center of it all, numerous monsters and mannequins working away on the construction without pause. Curious, the little one crawls closer, making it to the edge of the stage, where a small set of stairs waits for him. Jon climbs them without any hesitation, struggling a bit since he refuses to drag Cadet on the floor- that would be so rude to do to a friend!- and therefore must use at least one of his arms to carry the Raggedy Ann doll. Still, he’s a determined young thing, and soon enough the man makes it to the top of the stairs, leaving him on the mostly-complete stage. He smiles, eyes twinkling with interest as he sits up on his knees, Cadet held snugly in his arms. The stage is so big and shiny, he can only  _ imagine  _ the amazing plays and musicals that could be performed here. Rather deep in his littlespace and therefore lacking any fear of the horrifying creatures all around him, Jon scoots to the front-most part of the stage, holding Cadet out in front of him as he pretends that she’s the lead actress in a play of some sort. He doesn’t actually  _ know  _ what play it is yet, but whichever one it is, Cadet is  _ perfect  _ for the role, and has the audience in tears with her performance!

It’s while Jon is tossing Cadet in the air to help her with a backflip that Orsinov shows up. Her baby doesn’t notice her at first, too entrenched in his pretend game to hear her as she slips out from behind the curtains of the stage. When she sees her little one, the avatar of the Stranger grins, tiptoeing closer so that Jon won’t hear her right away and risk scaring himself out of his daydream.

“Behold the amazing,  _ beautiful  _ Cadet,” Jon murmurs under his breath, voice so quiet that he’s almost impossible to hear. Even in littlespace, he still sometimes struggles to be the small child that he is, feeling the need to keep any sort of pretend game entirely in his head, but just this once, he let’s a little bit of his story slip out. “Watch ladies and gentlemen as she soars through the sky, propelled by the magic of the theatre!”

“Such an  _ incredible  _ young actress,” Orsinov praises, causing Jon to give a mighty jolt in surprise. “If she weren’t my little one’s friend, I might just be tempted to have her along for a few shows~!”

Jon gets over his embarrassment quickly enough, and with a smile he looks over his shoulder, eyes fixed on Orsinov’s plastic face. “Mommy!” He greets, overjoyed to see his caretaker again.

“Yes, it’s Mommy,” Orsinov confirms, still feeling all kinds of wonderful when Jon calls her that. “How are you doing this morning, my precious baby? Getting into any  _ mischief?” _

“A lil’,” Jon admits, the slight dusting of a blush on his face, but it’s gone quickly, replaced with a small pout. “Mommy, Beak ‘n Hope put me in somethin’  _ icky,”  _ He says, pointing to his outfit with thinly veiled disgust. “I don’t wanna wear it.”

“I see,” Orsinov says, voice lacking the sort of mutual displeasure that Jon was hoping for. “Well Mommy  _ really  _ likes your outfit, so could you  _ please  _ keep it on for me, little one? You’ll only have to wear it until after lunch time.”

Well, that’s true. After lunch and dinner, Orsinov always gives the archivist a bath, mostly so she can apply more lotion to him after his skin has been freshly scrubbed. With this in mind, Jon gives a big, mighty sigh of defeat. “Okay, Mama.” He agrees, making it obvious through his tone that he’s not happy about this, but he’s willing to let it slide for his beloved caretaker.

_ “There’s _ my good boy!” Orsinov cheers, scooping Jon up and hugging him to her chest. “So sweet and good for me.”

Jon can’t help but giggle, grinning as he clings to Orsinov with one hand, the other still holding onto Cadet so he doesn’t risk dropping her again.

Off to the side, Breekon is still working on Hope, wearing a grimace as he has to deal with Hope’s incessant squirming. “Are ya almost done, Breekon? Dis is bloody  _ awful!” _ Hope complains, doing his best to glare with what’s left of his eyes.

“Quit ya grumblin’ ‘n hold still.” Breekon scolds, faster now as he just tries to get his partner back to looking presentable.

The minute Breekon’s done, Hope leaps back and pats his face, sighing with relief. “‘Bout time ya finished.” He grumbles.

Breekon rolls his eyes, thoroughly unimpressed. “Whatever ya fuckin’-” He suddenly goes still, realizing that not only is Orsinov here, but she has Jon in her arms.

Hope notices at the same time, letting out an undignified yelp as he stands at attention.  _ “Oi! _ Don’t go scarin’ us like dat, boss!”

“Shut it, Hope!” Breekon barks, smacking his partner upside the head for being disrespectful to their mistress.

Orsinov rolls her eyes, doing nothing to hide her scowl as she glowers at the two monsters she’s forced to work with. “Yes, good morning to you too, boys. I see I came just in time, or my little Archivist could’ve gotten himself lost!”

“Wasn’t lost, Mommy.” Jon insists, not taking kindly to the plastic woman’s assumption.

Orsinov gives Jon a light bounce, as if trying to quiet a whiny baby. “Well? Do either of you care to explain why you weren’t watching him, or am I to assume neither of you are as competent as I hoped you were?” She continues with the thinly veiled scolding, her glare never waning.

Hope, thank god, drops the attitude in no time flat. “Awful sorry for da trouble, boss.” He says, ducking his head in submission.

Breekon nods in agreement. “Yeah, wasn’t our intention for da lil’ one ta wander off, it’s just dat…” He glances at Hope, waiting for him to finish.

“Enough; I don’t have time for you two to play… what is it called?  _ Telephone? _ Whatever it is, you two are getting on my nerves,” Orsinov turns to Jon, giving the man a warm, motherly smile. “Sweetheart? Can you tell Mommy what Breekon and Hope were doing before she got here?”

“Hope was playing with me, Mommy,” Jon explains, smiling right back at his mother. Like he’s said before, he has no intention of instigating any ill will between him and the circus’s creations, and that means he’s willing to cover for them if need be. “But he accidentally made his face too stretchy, so Beak had to fix ‘im up, and I got bored of sitting, so I wanted to look around.”

“Oh? Well that certainly explains how you got onto Mommy’s stage,” Orsinov says, her bad mood gone in no time flat, now that Jon’s given her a satisfying answer. She smiles now at Breekon and Hope, her resentment gone like the wind. “Thank you for watching him for me, boys. You’re free to go now.”

Both delivery men nod, making sure to send Jon a matching pair of thumbs ups to show their gratitude. “You got it, boss.” Hope says, tipping his hat as he turns away, ready to go back to the truck to continue with more deliveries.

“Yeah, call us if ya need anythin’.” Breekon adds, following after Hope.

Once they’re gone, Orsinov chuckles, much to Jon’s confusion. “You’re such a sweet thing, my little Archivist,” She observes, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his forehead. “Come along now, let’s get you set up with a bottle while Mommy works.”

Jon nods in agreement, taking a moment to cling to the ringmaster with all his might, soaking up her attention while he can. He knows she’s going to be really busy today, so it’s best that he get his fill, lest he end up agitated over it later. Orsinov coos at the sight, endlessly amused by her Little’s clinginess, and being very careful not to drop him, she carries her charge securely in her arms as she leaves the theatre, making a beeline for what once was a breakroom for the museum’s employees, but has since been converted into a storage room for the archivist’s food. Once there, Orsinov switches to holding Jon with one arm, balancing him on her hip while she uses her free hand to grab a baby bottle from one of the breakroom’s cupboards. She fills it with cold milk, tempted to heat it up first, but she knows that would knock her baby right out, and he isn’t due for a nap until a little before lunchtime. Once the bottle is ready, Orsinov passes it to Jon, who immediately begins suckling on it, eyes half-lidded as he watches his caregiver grab a bowl next, filling it with fresh cinnamon applesauce. She then grabs a bear-themed spoon, and with everything prepared, she carries her little one and his breakfast back into the theatre, where off to the side, a large playpen has been set up for him, complete with a small TV clipped to one of the sides, and a handful of blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, and toys scattered inside.

With the grace of a dancer, Orsinov sets Jon down inside of the playpen, handing him his applesauce once he’s settled. “Thank you, Mommy.” The archivist chirps, wanting to show his gratitude before his caregiver has to leave.

“You’re very welcome, sweetheart,” Orsinov says, bending down to peck Jon on the forehead, producing a soft giggle from him. “Now you stay right here and have fun while Mommy works, alright? I’ll be back in a little bit. And remember to take your nap when you get tired!”

“Yes, Mama,” Jon agrees, taking a few more gulps from his bottle before he speaks again. “Can I watch a quiet show please?”

Orsinov hums, trying to hide her disappointment. “You don’t want to watch a show for little ones, darling?” When Jon shakes his head, she bites back a sigh, relenting without argument. “Alright honey, but only if you watch a colorful movie with Mommy after work.”

Jon nods, more than satisfied with that. “Okay, Mommy! Movies are better with you anyway.”

Orsinov smiles at that, messing with the television until it turns on, after which she changes the channel to one that shows nothing but documentaries. “There you are, little Archivist. Be good for me!” She repeats, stepping away to coordinate the construction while Jon watches his show.

Jon grins as he watches what looks to be a documentary on the pyramids of Egypt, soaking up the new information like a sponge. He’d honestly rather be reading a statement, or listening to one of Gertrude’s old recordings, but documentaries are still pretty entertaining for him, and they make the man feel more at ease in this strange place. Even if he’s been here awhile, there are still times that Jon feels overcome with…  _ something. _ He misses Martin, obviously (and also the other assistants, but mostly Martin), but the longer he’s away from the Magnus Institute, the more…  _ faded  _ he feels. He isn’t even sure if that’s a great way of describing it. He had a similar sensation while living with Georgie for those first few weeks, but at least he had statements being sent in every so often to keep him preoccupied and on track with his research. Now that he’s somewhere Elias can’t reach him, everything feels much more draining. Orsinov has been doing her best to fill in the gap, and Jon appreciates her so,  _ so  _ much for that, but he’s beginning to realize that nothing she can do will ever make this situation perfect for him. Still, the archivist knows it isn’t her fault that he’s feeling this way (well, it  _ is  _ her fault that he’s been kidnapped, but he stopped being upset about that days ago), so he’s decided he isn’t going to bring it up, lest he make Orsinov feel guilty for something she can’t control.

Yawning, Jon begins to doze a bit as he stares at the TV screen, the low monotone of the narrator’s voice doing little to fight back his fatigue. He doesn’t know if it’s naptime just yet, but with how tired he’s feeling, it might be a good idea to get more sleep than he usually does. With this in mind, he lies down on the very plush carpet of his playpen, the rug acting more like an over glorified mattress if he’s being honest with himself. Jon looks around, finding a large, red and yellow blanket nearby, which he pulls over himself while he hugs Cadet to his chest, letting out a sigh of contentment as he warms up under his covers. In this new position, he keeps watching TV, a new documentary coming on just a few minutes after he’s lied down, this one being about the forests of England. Jon perks up almost right away, giddy to watch something about nature. He eats his applesauce as he watches the documentary, eyes hardly even blinking he’s so engaged by the content, but soon enough he feels his eyelids grow heavier, and he knows he can’t stay awake for much longer. Yawning, the archivist sets his empty bowl aside, laying back down with the bottle back in his mouth, idly sucking on it as he slowly but surely falls asleep, not even noticing when Orsinov turns off the TV and dims the lights for him.

* * *

He wakes up about an hour later, the lights in the museum still dim and the noise around him hushed to a gentle, listless hum. Jon sits up a little, wincing when he feels how wet his diaper is; he must’ve used it while he was asleep. He lies back down, simply daydreaming for awhile, but someone must’ve seen him start to squirm, as the lights slowly begin to brighten, and just like that, construction on the theatre continues, loud but not horrendously so. Jon closes his eyes as he thinks, mind wandering to thoughts of the institute, and how his assistants and boss might be faring without him around. Is Melanie adjusting well to her new job? Probably not; she’s always been too stubborn to obey another person’s orders. How are Basira and Daisy? Jon has even less hope for them, fearing that the distance between them will more than likely leave them feeling like shit. Is Tim okay? He’s always been a source of happiness and positivity, even if that brightness has begun to wane in the last few months. Finally, what of Martin? Jon can’t keep back the smallest of whimpers at the thought of him, using Cadet to cover his mouth as he forces himself to bite his lip and not, under any circumstances, start crying. He misses him so bloody much. The short man knows he’s never been good at expressing his feelings properly, at making friends, but maybe when he gets back, he can try getting closer to Martin. That is, if he  _ ever  _ gets back.

Jon sighs, staring listlessly at the ceiling, that emptiness from before his nap returning in no time flat. Just as his mind is drifting to the subject of his boss, wondering if he misses him too, the archivist’s vision is obscured by a dark shadow. He blinks, not even flinching when he sees that it’s Orsinov who’s looming over him.

“I see  _ someone’s  _ awake!” Orsinov says, all smiles when she looks upon her little one. “Did you have a good nap, darling? You had a very  _ big  _ nap, didn’t you? Such a  _ sleepy  _ little thing~!”

Jon bites back a sigh, rubbing at his face as he tries to chase away any remaining fatigue. “I suppose it was a…  _ big  _ sleep.” He agrees, tone older than it’s been in a few days. He knows he isn’t little right now, so he really should make that clear to Orsinov before she gets her hopes up.

Unfortunately, that’s hard to do when Little Jon is her favorite thing about the captive. “Oh? Are you feeling a bit  _ big,  _ my little Archivist?” Orsinov asks, not dropping the baby talk just yet.

“Yes, I am.” Jon confirms, rolling onto his stomach and sitting up on his knees, forcing himself not to pick up Cadet as he does so.

Orsinov audibly huffs, deeply disappointed by the news. “Aww, that’s too bad… are you  _ sure  _ you’re a big boy right now? Not feeling even a  _ bit  _ little?”

Jon shakes his head, struggling not to scowl. “No, I’m fairly certain I’m not in littlespace right now, Miss Orsinov.” He says, making a point to not call the woman in front of him by any sort of caretaker title.

Orsinov sighs in such a  _ sad  _ tone, the Little side of Jon longs to drop, if only so he can make her happy, but that would be unfair to both of them. If he’s feeling big after at least three days of feeling little, he has the right to. “I’m sorry that you’re disappointed, Miss Orsinov, but I can’t control how I feel,” Jon explains, trying to be sympathetic even though he’s still annoyed that Orsinov is trying to guilt-trip him into slipping. “I’m sure I’ll be little later, but I can’t be right now.”

“I know, I know,” Orsinov murmurs, averting her eyes for a few seconds. Eventually though, she’s back to smiling, as if the last few minutes never happened. “But whether you’re big or small, I bet you’re still pretty hungry, aren’t you?”

Jon hesitates, glancing down at his stomach, watching as it gurgles with hunger. “I… suppose I am, yes.” He admits, cheeks tinted red with embarrassment.

Orsinov giggles, which doesn’t really help the archivist’s plight. “Such a  _ formal  _ young thing,” She teases, and it’s only now that Jon is made to realize that, whether he likes it or not, Orsinov talking to him like he’s a baby is just how she is, and she probably won’t try to change that anytime soon. “Luckily for you, Mo- I mean,  _ I  _ have something very yummy prepared for you!” Okay, maybe he’s wrong; at least she’s  _ trying  _ to be mindful of his current headspace.

Jon can’t help but perk up, curious of what Orsinov is planning on having him eat. “Oh? What is it?” He asks, struggling not to Compel her into giving him an answer. After all, if she’s going to make an effort for him, he’ll do the same for her.

Orsinov laughs again, amused by Jon’s curiosity. “You’ll just have to get up and see, now won’t you? But first-” She bends down and helps Jon to his feet, ready to stick a hand into his clothes and check his diaper, but she stops herself just in time. “Oh, right, of course… are you messy, honey?” She asks, giving the man an encouraging smile.

“I, um, uh…” Jon goes red all over again, humiliated by the question, especially since he already knows the answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Orsinov says, picking Jon all the way up before he can stop her. “I know you want to be a big boy right now, but I’m afraid you’ll still need to wear a nappy, sweetheart. We don’t have a potty for you to use.”

Jon huffs, tempted to bury his face in Orsinov’s shirt. “It’s…  _ fine,  _ Miss Orsinov. If it can’t be helped, it can’t be helped,” He mutters through gritted teeth, fighting with himself not to argue. If there’s no toilet, not much can be done on the matter, but he can’t help but remain irritated, especially since Orsinov’s collected so much baby stuff for him, yet has neglected to get much of anything that a grown man would need.  _ “Bloody conniving clown.”  _ He thinks, bitter as a spoonful of caster oil.

“There’s a good boy!” Orsinov praises, her tone doing nothing to ease Jon’s ire with her. “Now let’s get you all cleaned up!”

Jon is very tempted to tell her no, that he can handle it on his own… but his Little side, though sated for the time being, still loves Orsinov beyond reason, and wouldn’t be able to stand it if he upset her. So, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from arguing, Jon let’s his caretaker lay him down on a polka dot changing mat and unbutton his ridiculous outfit, at the very least finding comfort in getting to not wear the itchy mess for a short while. Orsinov, as per usual, is painfully slow when giving Jon a diaper change, as she has a rather long process for it. First she rips off the tape of his nappy, whispering a fair amount of praise for him using it before she sets it aside, using a few baby wipes to clean him up as thoroughly as she knows the man can stand. Jon, in the meantime, covers his face with his hands, embarrassed even though the many witnesses around him would never tell anyone about this. Next Orsinov grabs a bottle of body lotion, s squeezing a small dab of it onto her fingers and rubbing it into the skin of her captive’s backside and thighs, all while humming a happy tune under her breath. By this point Jon begins to chill out, relaxing under the smooth, massaging hands of his caregiver. Once the man has been properly moisturized, Orsinov finally powders him, then tapes on a fresh diaper for him. She smiles once she’s finished, grinning from ear to ear down at her little one.

“Such an  _ adorable  _ little boy,” Orsinov coos, going so far as to chuck Jon under the chin, earning herself a loud huff from the man. “Oh hush, Archivist; you’re cute and you know it.”

“I am  _ not.” _ Jon growls, crossing his arms and averting his eyes, tempted to curse Orsinov out, but he doubts that would end well for him.

“Yes you are,” Orsinov counters, giggling as she ruffles the archivist’s hair. Thankfully for all involved, she quickly backs off afterwards, looking her captive over with glassy, appraising eyes.  _ “Hm… _ I take it you have very little patience left for wearing the outfit the boys picked out for you, am I correct?”

Jon perks up right away, nodding his head in earnest. “Yes, ma’am,” He agrees, using his best manners to try and talk Orsinov into taking this wretched thing off of him. “May I please have it off now?” He asks, eyes big and pleading.

Orsinov chuckles, and it takes a lot of self control for Jon not to roll his eyes. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” She says, pulling the one piece all the way off, leaving him in nothing but his diaper. “Though, I assume you’ll get chilly without it… here, the boys were nice enough to bring this back from one of their delivery trips the other day, and I think you’ll find it  _ quite  _ charming!” She pulls out a baby blue t-shirt from seemingly nowhere, and without showing Jon the design, she forces it onto him.

Jon shakes his head rapidly once the shirt is on, sitting up with a scowl on his face. He cracks an eye open and glances down at his new shirt, but he can’t read it without his glasses on, especially since it’s upside down from his position. “What does it say?” He asks, hoping Orsinov will answer him.

“Something  _ nice,”  _ Orsinov assures, apparently content with her little one being left in the dark, likely because the shirt would annoy him if he knew what it said. “Don’t worry, Archivist, it looks simply  _ dashing  _ on you!”

Jon huffs, letting himself roll his eyes this time. “If you insist.” He mutters, still curious of what the shirt says, but he’ll just have to wait until he can find his glasses to read it.

Orsinov smiles, clapping her hands together once with a look of pride shining in her eyes.  _ “Perfect! _ Now come along and let’s get you fed.” She stands up, offering the man her hand.

Jon manages a small smirk in return, grateful that Orsinov is allowing him to walk. He takes her hand, glad she offered since he’s a bit unsteady on his feet when getting up. The muscle relaxants from last night are finally wearing off, but he knows he won’t have long to walk. After all, there’ll be more medicine in his lunch. Careful to not lose his footing, Jon more or less stumbles as he walks arm in arm with Orsinov, feeling akin to a toddler taking their first steps. The thought has him blushing with embarrassment, frustrated that his Little side is still having an effect on him when he’s big, but he supposes that’s bound to happen, considering how he’s mostly been Little since he got here a few weeks ago. Without really thinking about how little it would make him look, Jon leans his head against the arm Orsinov is using to support him, finding comfort in the position as he continues to walk with her. He hears the ringmaster chuckle at his antics, but he ignores her, making a point not to let her coddling lull him back into littlespace before he’s ready. The walk to the breakroom, thank god, isn’t long at all, and within a few minutes, Orsinov leads her charge into the makeshift kitchen, the strong scent of something heavenly making Jon almost trip when he steps through the doorway.

Orsinov giggles at this, helping support Jon on his unsteady legs. “Like trying to help a baby deer learn to walk,” She murmurs, giggling when Jon scowls at her as recompense. “Do you like that smell, baby? I had the boys acquire someone to…  _ help  _ make you something nice.”

Jon resists the urge to let his eyes widen, horrified at the implications. “You…  _ killed  _ someone? Just so I could have lunch?” He asks, baffled by the very idea. Whether he’s more surprised by someone doing something so extravagant for him or the murder is up in the air, but he really hope it’s the murder part that has him freaked out.

Orsinov laughs outright, shaking her head in earnest. “She isn’t dead  _ yet,  _ darling! After all, you’ll still need your dinner later,” She explains in a reassuring tone, which isn’t reassuring to Jon in the slightest. “Take a seat sweetie, and let Mommy get you your food.” She offers, leading the archivist over to where a tiny table and two chairs have been set up.

Jon makes a point out of not scolding Orsinov for the slip-up, and quietly, he takes his seat, internally wincing at the fact that it’s obviously a highchair, save for the lack of a tray. While looking around, he actually sees the tray it came with, but it seems Orsinov predicted that he would be big during lunchtime, and has set it on a nearby counter for later. The sight makes Jon just a little at ease, taking a minute to breathe, in and out, taking long, deep breaths to steady himself. He doesn’t have to be little right now, he  _ knows  _ that, but his Little side is nothing if not a people pleaser, and even if Orsinov is trying to hide it, he can sense her disappointment from a mile away. She’s  _ finally  _ finished her work for today, and what does she get? No time with her baby boy, that’s what. Jon’s eyes come to rest on the avatar of the Stranger, his guilty conscience weighing on him with all the heaviness of man’s fear for what they can’t control. Orsinov’s been so  _ good  _ to him since he got here, far better than most anyone has been to him in at least a few months, and because of this, Jon wants so badly to make her happy. Silently, he tells himself that he’ll drop into littlespace after lunch, and at least give himself another half hour or so of being big. After that, Orsinov can have her little one back, and Jon can think about anything but all the people he misses back at the institute.

Orsinov, predictably, only gets a bowl of soup for Jon, as food would just be wasted on something like her. She smiles as she strides over, setting the bowl on the table before turning back to Jon, and for a moment, he’s afraid she’s about to tie a bib around his neck and feed him herself. “Can’t have my Archivist spilling soup all over himself trying to reach the table,” She hums, and with ease she unlocks something on the highchair, holding onto the seat as it slowly eases down, adjusting it to be at a normal height. “There we go; now my big boy can feed himself!” She cheers, taking the seat across from Jon after locking the highchair in place again.

_ Oh. That was nice of her. _ “Thank you very much, Miss Orsinov.” Jon says, wanting the ringmaster to know how much he appreciates her as he slowly begins eating, mindful of her eyes staying locked onto his face. Goddamn, this soup is  _ really  _ bloody good! He forgot how much he loves beef and carrots.

“Of course, sweetie. Anything for you.” Orsinov promises, and not for the first time, Jon knows she’s telling the truth. She’d do  _ anything  _ for him.

It honestly strikes him as so very  _ bizarre,  _ the fact that all of this is happening. By all accounts, Jon expected to die when he woke up in this weird, obscure place, but no, he’s been spared from being peeled like a potato, and all because Orsinov has taken a liking to him when he’s mentally regressed. That probably makes him a very lucky man, especially since he  _ knows  _ what happens to most everyone else who’s been captured by the Stranger and it’s creations. And yet… he can’t be the  _ only  _ Little who’s met the Stranger, right? Jon knows his classification is outrageously rare, being the rarest of all classifications, but it’s not like they don’t  _ exist. _ So why  _ him? _ It’s a terrible, depressing way of thinking, but the archivist knows he’s a rather hard person to love and be around. He’s short-tempered, terribly introverted, a workaholic, and prone to pushing the few friends he has away from himself. Jon  _ knows  _ he’s hard to love, so why  _ him  _ of all the Littles in the world?  _ Surely  _ Orsinov could get her hands on a more agreeable, more loyal baby to take care of, but no. Apparently she only has eyes for Jon, and despite that working in his favor right now, the man can’t help but remain confused, unsure of why he’s found the caregiver he’s always longed for in what should’ve been his final resting place. As the saying goes, love happens in unlikely places, though he has a feeling that whoever penned that quote didn’t imagine anything quite like this.

“Something wrong, Archivist?” Orsinov asks, a concerned lilt in her tone. “You’ve hardly touched your lunch.”

Jon startles at the sound, glad he didn’t have a spoonful in his mouth, or he’d probably be coughing his lungs out. “I-I’m fine.” He lies, embarrassed to have been caught stuck in his own head.

Orsinov scowls, much to Jon’s surprise, as he’s unaccustomed to her looking anything but delighted when he’s around. “You shouldn’t lie, my Archivist,” She warns, though not in a scolding tone or anything of the sort. “Something is  _ clearly  _ upsetting you; you look close to tears.”

Jon pauses, raising a hand to his face, and indeed, he can feel a bit of wetness just below his eyes.  _ Dammit. _ “It’s… not important, Miss Orsinov,” He says, careful not to outright lie this time. “You shouldn’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

“Well that can’t be helped, darling. You’re still my baby, after all,” Orsinov points out, pasting on an encouraging smile for her charge. “Now please, tell me what’s wrong, my little Archivist.”

Jon hesitates, eyes anywhere but on the other avatar. “I’m… I’m _ confused,” _ He gives his confession at a slow pace, feeling uncertain even when he knows Orsinov is willing to hear him out. “I don’t know why you’re being so kind to me. Well, I know it’s because I’m a Little, but… why  _ me? _ You could probably have any Little you want, one that’s less inclined to leave their littlespace or argue, but for some reason, you’ve chosen to keep me. I’m not saying I’m ungrateful, I’m just… I don’t understand.”

Orsinov nods her head, taking it all in. “I suppose I can understand why you’d think that, little Archivist; you still don’t understand what a  _ wonderful gift _ you are,” She says it with such certainty, like it’s just a fact of life, like how the sky is usually blue and the grass is oftentimes green. “How long have you been told that you’re not good enough, my baby? How many people have hurt you, either through indifference or outright malice? I don’t know, but what I  _ do  _ know is that, no matter what you’ve gone through, I love you so,  _ so  _ much,” She gets out of her seat and comes to kneel by Jon’s side, taking his hands in hers with such a delicateness, it nearly unopens him then and there, but she has so much more to say. “Do you know why I don’t want another Little, Archivist? It’s because they would never be as fantastic as you. You’re  _ perfect, _ my darling. You’re so sweet, so curious, so loving. I know you don’t see that, not like you should, but trust me, you’re the most amazing baby a mother could ask for. I love you, my little Archivist. Mommy loves you so much, more than you’ll ever know.” She hugs him then, tight enough to hurt, but not enough to bruise or break anything.

It’s enough to tip Jon over the edge, and still drifting between headspaces, he sobs into the open air, too overcome to move his mouth over Orsinov’s shoulder and muffle himself. In his self-loathing and inner turmoil, the archivist reaches his mind into hers without permission, trying to find a lie or slip-up in his desperation to find the truth. This only unopens him further, because as Jon pushes the door to the other avatar’s mind open-  _ he can only get it a crack open, her power too great to let him all the way in, though she allows him at least a peek- _ he is greeted by a metaphorical flood of emotions, the strongest of which are the biggest waves of love and affection he’s ever felt in his young life. That just proves it then, doesn’t it? Orsinov loves him, despite every cell in Jon’s body wanting to believe otherwise. How can this be true? How on  _ earth  _ is he what she wants? He still can’t wrap his head around it, but even so, he clings to the ringmaster with all his might, bawling like a newborn baby that’s just been brought into this cold, unfamiliar world. Orsinov holds him through it all, picking him up and pacing the room with the Little held securely in her arms, rocking and bouncing him so gently, much like a patient mother would with a rowdy toddler. Jon sinks into the mental imagery, regressing in relative silence as he curls his fingers in the fabric of Orsinov’s circus outfit, occasionally fussing with a stray strand or ruffle in order to ground himself in reality.

“Such a big cry for such a small boy,” Orsinov murmurs, her tone soft as a freshly washed blanket or stuffed animal. “Are you feeling any better, my baby? Mommy knows you needed that.”

Jon nods listlessly against the woman’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded with fatigue.

Orsinov chuckles, but not in a mean spirited way. “Poor baby, having such a time of it… don’t you worry, Mommy will take good care of you,” With her hip, she pushes Jon’s chair back towards the table, making her way to the doorway of the breakroom. “How about we get you cleaned up, sweetie? I think a bath will make you feel  _ much  _ better.”

“Okay,” Jon agrees, voice as drained as he feels. On the way out of the breakroom, his eyes glance at his reflection for a brief moment, all red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. But that isn’t what truly catches his attention. No, it’s the shirt he still can’t read that befuddles him. “Mama,” He asks, lightly tugging on Orsinov’s shirt. “What’s my shirt say?”

Orsinov pauses mid-stride, at first appearing confused, but then she smiles, holding Jon away from herself more so she can free a hand and trace it over his chest. “Why, it says  _ ‘Little Curiosity’ _ in big, colorful letters!” She explains, grinning as she describes the shirt.

Jon smiles a little as well, eyes scanning his shirt, though he still can’t make out the words properly. “I… I think I like it, Mommy,” He admits, nuzzling his face against Orsinov’s chest. “I love you.” He whispers, pressing a short kiss to her neck.

If she could grin any wider, Orsinov would, her glassy eyes looking close to tears, though Jon knows she doesn’t have the ability to cry. “Such a  _ sweet  _ baby boy,” She says, peppering Jon’s face with light, butterfly-like kisses. “What on earth did I ever do to deserve you?”

Jon doesn’t have an answer for that, too small to be anything more than an infant. So instead he just hugs Orsinov tighter, warm and loving as he closes his eyes, content to stay with his caretaker for as long as she’ll have him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer than the last two chapters, but I loved every minute of writing this! Little!Jon is literally the cutest thing on earth, I love him with every fiber of my being. Feel free to leave a comment if you liked this chapter!


	4. Nothing is Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all officially allowed to beat the ever-living shit out of me when you’re done reading this chapter. In other words, I am an angsty bastard and I’m sorry for that.

The creature calling herself Sarah Baldwin doesn’t get surprised that often. She likes to think it’s because of all of her experience in and around the circus, of dealing with her boss’s rather frequent fits of passion, or simply just because she’s  _ that  _ good at handling the unexpected. Of course, some part of her knows this isn’t true, and despite her best efforts, she’s sometimes caught off-guard and sent down a much different path than she wanted. The hospital incident in particular has stuck with Sarah for some time, both because she didn’t think the place was legitimately haunted and because it unintentionally sent another rat scurrying into the troublesome little nest that calls itself the Magnus Institute. However, no matter  _ how  _ desperately she wants to believe that that night at the hospital was her biggest blunder in her life, and would hopefully be her last, Sarah is beginning to think that leaving Orsinov alone with the archivist, even if it was only for a few weeks, has been her worst decision yet. She figured it wouldn’t go perfectly from minute one- Orsinov is nothing if not  _ terrible  _ at restraining herself, and can hardly be talked down when she gets overly excited- but at  _ worst  _ Sarah expected either a very dead Archivist, or a very  _ traumatized  _ one, neither of which would be too detrimental to the Stranger’s plans. What she did not expect, by any means, was for her boss, Breekon and Hope, and the prisoner to be playing _ “House” _ like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

When Sarah steps through the entryway of the museum, arms burdened with books she plans on reading in preparation to fight back in the case of any other entities interfering with the Unknowing, there’s little more she can do but drop them in absolute  _ shock  _ as she sees the state of the place. The stage has been almost completely set up, just as she requested- though it is, noticeably, not as extravagant as she expected it to be by now- but to her confusion, the stage is littered with children’s toys and stuffed animals, making it look more like a daycare’s play area than the base for an unholy ritual. If that weren’t strange enough, Sarah’s eyes soon land on Orsinov, secretly relieved that she isn’t dressed like a 50’s housewife, not that the grown man dressed in infantile clothes in her arms does much to dispel the mental imagery. Instead of the archivist being chained up and hogtied to a chair like he was when she left, Sarah sees that the man’s only restraint is a pacifier in his mouth, and even  _ that  _ doesn’t have any sort of strap to keep it in place! Stepping closer, the creature simply stares at her mistress and prisoner, unsure of what to say or ask. What on earth happened while she was gone!? She said she’d only be gone for a few weeks, maybe a month at most! There  _ has  _ to be an explanation for this madness, but knowing Orsinov, Sarah doubts it will be a very satisfying one.

“Okay baby, here’s another one! Which one’s the square?” Orsinov asks, holding up a few colorful cards for Jon to look at.

As expected, Jon points to the green square in no time flat, not even seeing it as a challenge.

Orsinov coos, clapping with the cards still in her hands, which accidentally makes her bend them at the edges. “Very well done, my little curiosity! Can you find the circle next?”

Again, Jon picks out the right one, it being a blue circle. He offers up a small smile behind his pacifier, at least somewhat amused by Orsinov’s reactions to this infantile game.

“ _ Yes! _ You’re such a  _ smart  _ little boy, yes you are!” Orsinov cheers, setting aside the cards and laying the archivist down on the floor, only to tickle his sides relentlessly.

“Ahh!” Jon squeals, squirming in earnest as he tries to get away, but it’s no use. His pacifier slips from his mouth, dropping to the floor as he continues to bellow for release. “Mama, stoppit! No more, no more!”

“I’m not hearing a  _ please~!” _ Orsinov teases, continuing to tickle the man without any sign of stopping.

“Please Mommy,  _ please!” _ Jon begs, grinning from ear to ear throughout the ordeal, likely only wanting her to stop so he can catch his breath.

“Hm… well, since you asked so nicely,” Orsinov says, yanking up her hands almost inhumanly fast. As the archivist lays panting on the floor, the older avatar finally looks Sarah’s way, her grin widening when she recognizes who it is.  _ “Sarah! _ Welcome back, darling~! Find anything interesting while you were out on your little scavenger hunt?”

Sarah gulps, though her throat is nothing but plastic; she thinks it’s a nervous habit from when she was still human. “I… suppose so, yes. What on  _ earth  _ is going on here, Nikola?”

Orsinov perks up a bit, scooping Jon up and pulling him to sit on her lap. “Sarah, you’re never going to believe it, but the Archivist is a  _ Little!  _ I thought at first he might be lying to protect himself, but one round of research from the boys confirmed it; he’s a full, genuine Little! Isn’t he simply  _ adorable?  _ Just look at his outfit; it’s  _ so  _ cute!”

Indeed, Jon’s outfit is admittedly quite…  _ endearing,  _ Sarah decides. The prisoner is dressed in the rather babyish garb of red overalls, a yellow and blue sweater, and green socks, looking all too much like a child visiting… well, the circus. When looking at the archivist’s face, Sarah half expects to find him smirking at her, pleased that he’s successfully outplayed the Stranger’s minions, but when she glances into his eyes, she can see just how  _ scared  _ he is of her, but not the woman who’s holding him. Jon squirms slightly in Orsinov’s grasp, eyes wide and brimming with tears, and it’s only now that Sarah realizes that despite it being advantageous for him to be a Little in this particular situation, Jon isn’t exactly a fan of acting the part, especially in front of an audience. When he notices Sarah’s eyes on him, trying to pick the short man apart, he audibly whines, whimpering up a storm until Orsinov loosens her grip, and the minute he’s free, he scrambles to hide behind the avatar of the Stranger, only daring a few tiny glances back out at his voyeur. Were it anyone else, Sarah might consider him cute, but alas, he’ll always be the Eye’s worthless runt to her. Orsinov, in the meantime, giggles at Jon’s antics, but notably does not intervene, save to grab a nearby stuffed animal-  _ is that a Raggedy Ann doll? Sarah’s inner human vaguely recognizes the toy for what it is-  _ and pass it over to the archivist, who grabs and hugs it with all of the fearful desperation of a rabbit about to be gunned down for sport.

“So… the Archivist is a Little?” Sarah repeats, receiving an excited nod from her boss. “That certainly complicates things, doesn’t it?”

“It might, but for the  _ better  _ I think!” Orsinov says, her hands fussing with her tights as she struggles to resist the urge to reach back and drag Jon back onto her lap. Wait, she’s actually  _ trying  _ to restrain herself for once? This all really  _ is  _ something to marvel at. The ringmaster slowly stands up, careful to let Jon stay partially hidden behind her long legs as she does so. “Just think of the  _ possibilities, _ Sarah! Why, with the Eye’s precious Archivist now under our control, there’s no one strong enough for them to throw at us left! And besides that, he’s quite lovely to have around. Really, this is the best thing that  _ ever  _ could’ve happened! Don’t you agree, darling?”

Despite all the times Orsinov has driven her crazy with her demands, her ridiculous way of getting shit done, and her overall mannerisms, Sarah will always remain loyal to her and the circus, which took her in and showed her love when no one else would. Even so, the Stranger’s puppet feels a sense of uncertainty, both because she’s never seen Orsinov so excited about something, and because, well, it’s just too good to be true. She’s supposed to simply believe that the Eye chose a  _ Little  _ as it’s Archivist, despite that being such an easy thing to be taken advantage of? No, there has to be something more here, and as Sarah looks closer at the prisoner using her mistress’s legs as a shield, she begins to unravel what it is. Jon obviously isn’t lying about his classification, and is by all accounts a genuine Little- Breekon and Hope would  _ never  _ bring back false information, especially for Orsinov- but as Sarah looks at his face, she can see the bone-crushing fatigue in his eyes, and all at once, it hits her; he’s  _ starving. _ Not for food, since she doubts her boss would be so foolish as to not provide him with at least a few daily meals, plus the archivist seems to have actually  _ gained  _ a few pounds since he got here, but he still reeks of listlessness and fatigue, hungry for information that he can’t ever hope to find here. If they keep him much longer, he might just starve to the point of resentment, and that would break Orsinov’s porcelain heart more than anything else could at this point.

Well, best to get this over with in the gentlest way possible, which means not mentioning the starvation if she can help it. Time to be Miss Rude Pants, as Orsinov so often puts it.

The thing that’s posing as Sarah takes a long, deep breath, though there are no lungs in her chest to help her with the process. “You can’t do this.” She says, unable to keep from trying to glare at Jon, forcing her mind to remember how he damaged her shell in a weak attempt to make herself angry at the man, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Orsinov pauses for a long moment, a confused look on her face. “What do you mean?” She asks, all while scooping the archivist back up and sitting him on her lap. In what must be an obvious attempt to distract himself, the prisoner has taken possession of something similar to a Rubix Cube, and he plays intently with it as the adults around him talk.

Sarah sighs again, irritated. “You can’t just _ keep him,  _ Nikola,” She explains, exasperated as she looks nervously between her boss and the Little in her lap, as if she’s still trying to figure out how this could’ve happened in such a short amount of time. “For Christ’s sake, he’s still the Archivist of the Eye; the circus would  _ never  _ accept something so… so…” She trails off, trying to find a good enough excuse that won’t offend her mistress. “So bloody  _ curious.” _

“Well  _ I’m  _ curious too, and I believe It likes me  _ just fine.” _ Orsinov points out, her smile coming back in full force, though there’s an obvious tension now in her gangly frame. After all, this is her first time being opposed since she decided to keep Jon.

“You’re curious of what a human’s  _ insides  _ look like, not of _ knowledge,” _ Sarah says, growing more and more irritated as the argument continues. She doesn’t want to break Orsinov’s heart, but dammit, she feels like she doesn’t have a choice! “Even if the circus  _ might  _ accept him, how much good could a slobbering Little do for us?”

“He doesn’t really  _ slobber…  _ much too refined for that, aren’t you?” Orsinov teases her baby, tickling Jon under the chin, which produces a light huff of a laugh from him. “And in any case, he’s not  _ always  _ little… he could be very useful to us in other ways!”

“Only in the cases of blackmail or harvesting,” Sarah isn’t going to back down, not when the Unknowing is so close, and the archivist looks half dead in Orsinov’s arms. “Come now, Nikola, you can’t tell me that keeping a Little around is going to be anything but a problem moving forward. Just look around!” She gestures at the state of the museum, not a single stage-light insight, not after Orsinov took them all down to keep Jon’s eyes from getting irritated. “You’ve hardly gotten anything done since the Archivist has arrived!”

“That’s not true!” Orsinov insists, finally growing a bit upset with Sarah. She stands up, careful to set the prisoner down before she goes to face her minion, her body language expressive as she argues with her from her spot on the edge of the stage, which only adds to her already impressively tall height. “I’ve gotten quite a  _ lot  _ done, no thanks to you and your fussiness! We’ve already got the stage built, all the spotlights ready, the curtains-”

“-Almost none of which are actually ready for the Unknowing, because you’re too busy playing  _ pretend!” _ Sarah snaps, and although she’s tiny, especially compared to her boss, she glowers up at Orsinov with no small amount of anger, wanting nothing more than to just make her see things her way, but alas, she knows that the ringmaster’s head is up in some truly strange looking clouds, and it’s going to take a lot more than Sarah to talk her back down to earth.

There’s a long, heavy pause, and for a few minutes, Sarah wonders if Orsinov will kill her. Instead, the avatar let’s out what sounds almost like a sigh, but not quite. “Sarah, my darling… I know you’re not being truthful with me, are you? I love a good bout of pranks and tricks when the mood is right, but now is hardly the time. So please, tell me what’s  _ really  _ bothering you about all of this. Do you truly hate the Archivist so much that you don’t even have pity for him when he’s quite obviously a Little?”

Sarah hesitates, eyes flickering between Orsinov, who is leaning over her expectantly, and the archivist, who’s taken to lying down on the floor, subtly clutching his stomach with his lips tightly bitten as he struggles to hide his pain.  _ He’s trying not to worry his mother. _

Slowly, Sarah sighs, resigning herself to her fate, but it must be done, both for her sake, and Jon’s. “He’s  _ starving,  _ Nikola.” She points out, drawing Orsinov’s attention to the little one behind her.

Orsinov tilts her head in confusion at first, unsure of what Sarah is talking about, but as she turns around she jolts, her reaction inhuman and unnaturally fast. “Sweetheart!” She shouts, running over to crouch by Jon’s side. She takes his head in her hands, holding him so gently, it makes Sarah feel like she’s watching a movie. “Archivist, what’s wrong? What happened, my baby!?”

Jon grimaces, trying to turn his head away and avert his gaze, but Orsinov won’t let him. “I-I’m okay, Mama, really,” He lies, wanting to spare his caregiver of his pain. “J-Just a lil’ tired.”

“You know better than to lie, little one,” Orsinov says, though not in a scolding manner, her voice too full of worry to be upset with the archivist. “Now please, tell Mommy what’s wrong!”

Jon takes a few more seconds to respond, but when he does, his voice is soft as cotton. “I’m… I’m  _ hungry.”  _ He admits, eyes full of shame.

Orsinov smiles, even though Sarah can tell that she’s still worried. “Hungry? Is that all, baby boy? Here, let Mama get you another bottle, or maybe some cookies? I bet you could use some cookies.” She goes to stand up, but the archivist’s hand gripping her ankle stops the woman dead in her tracks.

“No, Mama,” Jon murmurs, tears finally beginning to drip down his face. “Not… not  _ that  _ kind of hungry.  _ Hungry.” _

“I don’t understand.” Orsinov says, eyes glassy but unable to cry.

Sarah pulls herself onto the stage, walking over and standing dutifully by Orsinov’s side. “He’s hungry for  _ information, _ Nikola,” She whispers, unable to keep the pity out of her voice. She’s no Caregiver or parent of any kind, so she can only guess how much it would hurt to have to give up your offspring. “Information which we, unfortunately, can’t give him.”

Orsinov brainstorms on that for a few minutes, the clockwork of her mind so apparent that Sarah believes that if it were any quieter, she could hear the clicking of the gears. “I’ve got it!” The ringmaster yells, jumping to her feet with a victorious grin on her face, which she shows to Sarah straightaway. “We’ll raid the institute for their statements!”

Both Jon and Sarah wince, but for very different reasons. “It would never work, boss,” Sarah warns, not nearly as optimistic as her mistress, not that that’s anything new. “The institute’s too well guarded, especially since they know that the Unknowing is drawing near. Trying to attack them would be suicide, and could cost us our ritual.”

“Mommy,” Jon whimpers, gripping Orsinov’s tights again, his tears increasing in volume as he struggles not to bawl. “Please don’t hurt them… I know Da-  _ Elias  _ is mean, but not the others! Please Mommy, don’t hurt them!” He shoves his face into her calve, losing the battle as he begins to sob.

Orsinov is quick to scoop the archivist up, cradling him in her arms as she rubs long, slow circles into his back. “Shh shh, my baby… there’s no need to cry, sweetheart. Mommy would  _ never  _ hurt the people you care about.” That’s a lie if Sarah ever heard one, but she won’t say anything for the Little’s sake. She’s not  _ heartless  _ after all.

Once Jon has calmed down, and promptly fallen asleep in his Caregiver’s arms, Orsinov and Sarah exchange a look, and even without the taller woman speaking, Sarah knows she’s won.

“…You  _ really  _ think we can’t keep him, Sarah?” Orsinov asks in an almost hypothetical manner, her grip on the prisoner outrageously gentle, hands still rubbing his back on occasion.

“Not unless you want him to be brain dead within the next few weeks,” Sarah says, her eyes lingering on the archivist’s back. When he’s so quiet and compliant, he almost appears…  _ youthful. _ No wonder he’s a Little. “I’m sorry, Nikola… we really don’t have any other choice.”

“So what do we do with him? We can’t  _ skin  _ him, not after all that’s happened!” Orsinov insists, her hold on the man tightening.

Sarah nods, hands up in surrender. “I’m not saying we should; I wouldn’t make you do that, boss,” She promises, grimacing as she considers their options. Finally, she sighs, knowing what must be done. “We should contact the institute, see if we can ransom him off for something. Who knows? Maybe that bastard Elias has our skin after all, and is willing to part with it in exchange for his archivist.”

Orsinov grimaces in turn, unhappy with the idea. “You want to give him back to that… that  _ wretched  _ institute!? But why? They’re  _ awful,  _ Sarah!”

Sarah nods again, undeterred by Orsinov’s reaction. “Even so, they’re the only ones who can properly  _ Feed  _ an Archivist, and you don’t want him  _ dead, _ do you?” When Orsinov just shakes her head, Sarah softens, laying a somewhat cautious hand on the ringmaster’s bony shoulder. She has to get up on her tiptoes to do so, the height difference is so staggering. “Then we  _ must  _ do this… I know you don’t like it, but it’s what’s best for everyone. For you, the circus, the Archivist… even the Eye.”

“I  _ hate  _ the Eye,” Orsinov growls, the sound odd and cat-like in his hollow throat. “Wretched,  _ ceaseless  _ watcher… I wish we had found him first.”

“Honestly? I wish we had, too,” Sarah says, not quite meaning it, but whatever gets Orsinov to calm down faster, the better. “Don’t worry, Nikola. Once this is all over, and our ritual succeeds, you’ll have him right back in your arms, and without the mark of the Eye on him. Won’t that be  _ wonderful? _ We just need to work towards our goal, and you’ll have everything you ever wanted.”

Orsinov perks up at that, smiling with joy once more. “Yes, exactly! We just need to make sure this dance is the best dance ever!” She starts swaying around the stage a little, Jon out cold in her arms, but she refuses to set him down while she dances. “Oh, I can hardly wait, Sarah!”

Sarah returns the ringmaster’s smile, her own not nearly as confident. There’s no guarantee the archivist will survive the Unknowing, but whatever makes Orsinov happy. Hopefully when this is all over, she’ll learn to forgive her minion for doing what was right.

* * *

Jon may not be the greatest at reading a room, but even  _ he  _ can sense the unease in his mother when she comes to collect him after her and Sarah Baldwin’s meeting. As usual, he smiles gleefully when he sees her, crawling over and holding up his arms to her, hands opening and closing with unrestrained excitement. Orsinov simply  _ stares  _ at the archivist at first, her expression uncharacteristically blank, something that makes the man hesitate, pulling his arms back with a look of caution overtaking his face. What’s going on here? Why does Mommy look so upset? Jon waits a moment more, but when Orsinov still doesn’t move, he holds up his arms to her again, this time hoping it’ll snap her out of it. It sort of works, as the ringmaster finally walks forward and scoops him up, but her grasp is so  _ tight! _ The archivist winces, tempted to cry out so his caretaker will know he’s in pain, but he holds back, not wanting to make her feel any worse than she already is. Wordlessly, Orsinov carries Jon off the stage and back towards his nursery down the hall, her glassy eyes holding no emotion other than what might be sadness. Jon clings to her shirt the whole way to his room, his paranoia telling him that something is very,  _ very  _ wrong here, but he’s too afraid to ask his mother what’s bothering her. Good god, wouldn’t Elias be  _ proud; _ an archivist that can’t even gather the courage to ask a simple  _ question. _

When they reach the nursery, Orsinov doesn’t go to the bathtub like Jon expected her to- like she does every day around this time- and instead she simply walks to the crib, sets him inside, and turns to walk away. The archivist feels his heart jump to his throat, and without really thinking about it, he sits up on his knees in the crib, calling out to Orsinov despite his cowardice.

“Mama!” Jon shouts, recoiling as the loud sound echos out of his throat and around the large room.

Orsinov stops mid stride, but she doesn’t turn around to look at him. She just stands there, for all the world looking like one of her beloved mannequins.

Jon swallows, not sure what to say… but he’s gotta say  _ something. _ “Mama, what’s  _ wrong?”  _ He asks, voice unbelievably shaky.

Something in Orsinov seems to  _ shiver…  _ and then, like clockwork, she continues to the door, pausing again in the doorway, her hand tentative over the nearby light-switch. “Archivist…” She says, so low and hollow, it makes her charge quiver with unease. “I’m… I’m  _ sorry.” _ With that she shuts off the lights, closing the door tight on her way out.

Jon sits there for a good twenty or so minutes, just staring listlessly at the door, his stomach filled to the brim with fear and threatening to eject his lunch if he doesn’t calm down soon. Why did Orsinov feel the need to apologize? Has she or one of her followers done something to a member of the archives, and now she’s putting off telling him the bad news? The thought definitely scares him, but Jon’s fairly certain that he would’ve felt it if one of his assistants died. So what’s going on? Even without any proof, he’s already beginning to draw up a rather dreadful hypothesis; could she be  _ done  _ with him? It seems so unlikely, especially since just yesterday Orsinov was going on and on about his role in the Unknowing, how he’d be her partner in a sweet little tango for the finale. Jon suddenly can’t help but snarl, aware that his caretaker only started acting weird after the  _ abomination  _ pretending to be Sarah Baldwin showed up. Could she have talked Orsinov into getting rid of him? That seems like a much stronger possibility, considering how much the monster hates him. But why challenge the ringmaster of the circus? Jon’s no expert on the inner workings of other Entities and their disciples, but he’s fairly certain that the circus has a  _ very  _ strict hierarchy, and that Nikola Orsinov sits at the top of the food chain. So wouldn’t it be  _ suicide  _ to argue with her? Unless… unless she was already  _ planning  _ on getting rid of him soon, and just needed a bit of encouragement.

It’s the most immature thing, and Jon  _ knows  _ that his grandmother would be rolling in her grave if she could see him right now, yet he can’t help but feel tears gather in his eyes, trickling down his face and dripping down to dampen the mattress. With the beginnings of grief already polluting his mind, Jon’s eyes glance around the nursery, his heart swelling with both joy and fear. At first he really didn’t like the nursery- too infantile and gaudy for his tastes- but there’s something so overwhelmingly comfortable about it now, especially since he’s finally gotten his first real chance to be taken care of by someone other than a person that felt forced to. Will he at least be allowed to bring his Raggedy Ann with him, that he’s grown so attached to and sees as a friend? What about the pink and yellow blanket that Orsinov always wraps him in before bed, using it to swaddle him as she rocks him to sleep? And who could forget the Blue’s Clues themed magnifying glass he carries around sometimes, which he’s been encouraged to use on little  _ “scavenger hunts” _ that Mommy sends him on while she gets work done? Slowly, yet all at once, Jon realizes that he doesn’t  _ want  _ to leave this place, even as he feels a great hunger- a hunger that refuses to wane, no matter how much he eats or drinks- send awful,  _ aching  _ waves throughout his entire body, making the archivist double over from the pain. This gets a few more tears out of him, as well as a low, scared whimper.

“Dammit,” Jon whispers, his mind trapped somewhere strange between Little and Big, where he feels pain so acutely and wants to reason himself through everything, yet he still wants his Mommy. “The ache… it’s getting worse.”

He’s known about this newfound chronic pain for, give or take, about three weeks now, which is when Jon thinks it started; littlespace might make real life a bit fuzzy and cause him to miss stuff, but pain is still pain, and it’s  _ very hard _ to ignore, especially when it’s this intense. Of course, when that first ache came, the Little chalked it up to food pains and asked him Mommy for something to eat, and she happily provided. The real concern came when, despite filling his belly with chicken tenders and mashed potatoes, the ache came back within an hour of eating, this time just a bit more pronounced. And just like that, the pain grew, growing more and more impossible to withstand, but as usual, Jon is nothing if not stubborn as a mule, and he’d be damned if Orsinov ever found out. So of course she has, if her reaction to his stomach pain a few hours ago is any indication. Could  _ that  _ have been the tipping point? Does she think that the archivist is broken, and therefore not worth anymore of her time? Jon’s overly self-critical mind wants to lean into that train of thought, letting himself be smeared across the tracks and forgotten about by the next stop, but a small, very familiar and feminine voice at the back of his mind tells him otherwise.  _ No, your mummy doesn’t hate you, sweetheart. Something else is going on here, and you just need to find out what. Can you be strong and go ask her what’s wrong? You know she won’t punish you for being worried, little curiosity. _

Jon dry-swallows, the voice in his mind feeling almost as real as the crib bars he’s holding in a death-grip. “I… I think I can.” He whispers, great uncertainty making him so very afraid, but he loves his Caregiver too much to lose her without so much as a fight or explanation.

Forcing himself over the crib bars, Jon lands on his feet rather easily, and it’s only now that he realizes that Orsinov forgot to give him his evening bottle, which means most of the muscle relaxants from this morning have worn off by now.  _ He can walk. _ Just as he’s about to leave, the man pauses, eyeing his Raggedy Ann on the floor. Mommy must’ve dropped her while she was putting him to bed. The sight breaks his heart, and very gently, Jon scoops the doll up, giving it a tight but gentle hug. “It’s alright, Cadet,” He murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to the stuffed toy’s forehead. “Mommy didn’t mean to drop you on the floor. Something is making her very sad, but don’t worry, I’m going to fix it! You can come along too, if you’d like.”

As Cadet can’t actually answer, Jon mentally gives himself one, imagining that the doll insists on coming along to keep her best friend safe from harm. With an ally by his side to make him feel less outnumbered, the archivist tiptoes carefully to the door, hand hesitating as it rests on the doorknob. Orsinov has told him before that he’s not allowed out of his room without her or Breekon and Hope around to monitor him, and seeing as the boys are out and it’s Mommy he’s trying to go to… Jon gulps, terrified to possibly get in trouble. Wait, no, he can’t be so selfish! He shakes his head in earnest, trying to dispel such self-protective thoughts from his mind. This isn’t about him, this about Mommy! Who cares if she might spank him for wandering out of his room without permission? If it means keeping his Caregiver, it’s worth it. After taking a deep breath for courage, Jon finally cracks the door open, poking Cadet’s head out first to look around. Unfortunately, she is a doll, and can’t really give him much intel. It almost makes him huff; as usual, his assistants are of little help to him. After pulling Cadet out of sight, Jon takes a turn looking around, relieved when he sees that the hallway is clear of any foot traffic.  _ Perfect. _ He steps carefully out of the nursery, clutching Cadet protectively to his chest as he stumbles out of his sanctuary, but instead of going to where he knows the stage is, he goes in the opposite direction, heading to Orsinov’s personal quarters.

He’s been in her room a few times now, mostly when the entrance of the museum has gotten too loud and she wants some space from her minions. As Jon reaches the door to his Caregiver’s room, he feels the urge to just rip the door open and get on with it, but he’s still at least a  _ little  _ cautious. Careful and slower than a turtle, he pushes the large, red wooden door open, giving him just enough room that he can peek inside. Just as it was before, Orsinov’s bedroom is an absolute trainwreck, with countless dresses, pairs of heels, scarves, and other such feminine clothing scattered across the floor and furniture, looking more like one of those American dressing rooms he sometimes sees in documentaries on Hollywood. Jon looks around, trying to find his mother, and to his gratefulness, he finds her rather quickly. The ginormous, plastic woman is sprawled out on her extravagant bed, the mattress so large that her feet can’t reach the far end of it, even when she’s completely lying down. Orsinov doesn’t look up when the door creaks open, and as Jon steps closer, he realizes why. His Caregiver looks a wreck, long trails of mascara running down her pale face, which had to have been done on purpose. Her eyes are closed in an expression that her Little can only describe as defeated, her entire body lax and pliant, as if she’s just waiting for someone to come and execute her. Needless to say, the sight is quite alarming for Jon.

For a few minutes, Jon can’t find it in himself to speak, unsure of what to say or ask. All at once, he’s reminded of the numerous times he found his grandmother like this, sobbing and burdened by a wretched pain he couldn’t even hope to alleviate, at least not without running away or killing himself. Here though, even while his mind longs to destroy itself with guilt, Jon has a feeling that doing either of those things would only make Orsinov’s condition that much worse.

Luckily for the Little, Orsinov is the one to break the ice after a few more seconds of tense silence. “Hello, little one,” She greets, her tone lacking it’s usual bouncy inflection. “What are you doing out of bed? Do you need something from Mommy?” It’s not accusatory, not in the slightest, but somehow that just makes Jon more uncertain.

“I’m… I’m worried about you,” Jon says, the Big part of him winning out for a short time, if only because he needs to be more coherent in this situation. “You’re not acting like yourself.”

Orsinov huffs, the sound akin to a laugh. “I suppose I can’t hide anything from someone so observant, can I?” She sits up, the motion unnatural and smooth. Her eyes travel delicately over Jon’s face, searching for something. Whatever it is, the Little hopes she finds it, so long as it’ll make her feel better and now worse. Slowly, the ringmaster gives a pained smile. “My precious Archivist… do you realize that you’re starving?”

Jon nods, it being a slow, listless motion that feels strangely alien to him. “Yes,” He whispers, so quiet he thinks that even a mouse would miss what he said. He repeats himself, longing to be heard. “Yes, I… I think I do, at least somewhat. It’s not your fault, though.” He feels the need to say that, in case Orsinov is blaming herself for his health issues. She’s done all she can, after all.

There’s a slow, almost amused chuckle. “I know honey, I know,” With all the tenderness she can manage, Orsinov reaches towards the man, picking Jon up from under his arms and pulling him carefully onto the too-big bed. She then lies down with him in tow, guiding Jon to rest his head against her chest. “You’re such a  _ kind  _ child, Archivist. Did you know that? Perhaps, but I doubt you’d ever let yourself believe it. At least you’ll admit you’re an intelligent thing, right? So curious, so hungry for information… that’s what’s starving you, in the end. Can’t be helped, not with that dreaded Eye being imprinted on you and all, and with no way to remove it without harming you quite severely… well, it wouldn’t do to have you starve to death in my arms, darling. In all sincerity, I don’t think what’s left of my heart could take it.”

Jon understands what she’s getting at, but he can’t say he’s onboard with it, either. “I don’t think I’d  _ die  _ from it, not in any way that matters, at least. I could handle it… for you.” He says, eyes downcast as he fiddles with a loose string on Orsinov’s shirt. Despite not being fully Little at the moment, he still feels so safe in this position, even his adult mind beginning to associate his kidnapper as a protector and not a monster of any kind.

“But it  _ would  _ matter,” Orsinov counters, not bending on the matter, if only for her charge’s sake. She sits up then, positioning Jon to sit on her lap. She stares so deeply into his eyes, it makes the archivist quiver with that same trepidation he felt when she put him down for a nap earlier. “I can’t watch you  _ starve, _ Archivist… maybe I could have a month ago, but not now, not that I  _ know  _ what you are, what you’re going through in that big, adorable head of yours. Imagine that, an avatar of the Stranger, caring for a budding avatar of the Eye… do you suppose this has happened before? A Little avatar and a Caregiver avatar meeting, and taking pity on one another? I wonder if it hurt them, too. Maybe, if they were quite so lucky, they weren’t of such opposing Entities as us. Not that I care much; I just want to keep you forever, my curiosity.”

Jon nods against Orsinov’s chest, tears gathering in his pale green eyes, his irises glowing slightly with an emotion the man can’t quite name or even begin to describe. “I don’t want to say goodbye,” He whispers, his throat clogged and weak. Sobbing, he nearly headbutts his mother in his desperation to stay as close to her as physically possible. “I don’t wanna say goodbye!” He repeats, louder this time.

“I know,” Orsinov whispers, unblinking as she begins to rock the small archivist in her lap. “I know, my baby… I don’t want you to go either.”

“It’s not  _ fair!” _ Jon yells, wincing at the volume of his own voice. But he doesn’t care, not when so much is on the line.

“I know, dearest,” Orsinov repeats, continuing to rub her Little’s back in soothing circles. “It’s not fair, the lives we live, but we all have a role to fill… ours are just very unpleasant at the moment.”

Not for the first time, Jonathan Sims feels cursed by his classification. On one hand, it serves for an easily accessible coping mechanism, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy being a kid again sometimes, but he cannot and never has tried to deny that it hurts. It aches and burns when he goes too long without regressing, and although this is his first time being allowed to be Little for such long periods of time, Jon already feels addicted, desperate to keep things this way. He’d still like to be Big sometimes- he’d go insane if he wasn’t allowed to be an adult most of the time, allowed to make his own decisions and keep some semblance of agency- but he doesn’t know if he can go back to how things were before, when he wouldn’t let himself regress until he was far past his breaking point, and even then, it was unsatisfying and uncomfortable to go through. That’s what Caregivers are supposed to fix, apparently. They’re meant to take care of Littles as they traverse their littlespace, providing comfort and affection while they work through whatever needs working through. Jon clings to Orsinov even tighter now, trying to memorize and catalogue the texture of her clothing, the scent of her perfume, the strength of her plastic, immobile flesh. For the first time in his life, the archivist has found himself someone who’s willing to love him unconditionally- at least, to his knowledge, since he’s struggling with his feelings regarding Martin- and although he knows it’s selfish, he doesn’t want to give this up so easily. Jon wants things to stay the same, even at the cost of his own health.

“Wanna stay,” Jon insists, slipping fully into littlespace without a second thought. Maybe if he’s Little and cute, Mommy will keep him. “Wanna stay with you, Mama… I love you.”

“I love you too, Jon,” Orsinov says, and the man shivers, his name sounding so strange on her inhuman tongue, yet so right. “I’m so sorry, my darling, but… we have to separate, at least until all of this is over. When Mommy completes the Unknowing, she’ll come back for you, but for now, you need to eat and Mommy needs to work.”

Jon let’s out a long, unsteady exhale. He knows, deep in his heart, that Orsinov will not succeed in the Unknowing. She will fail, and in the aftermath, he just  _ knows  _ he’ll lose her, and it will be because he did what was right for humanity, for the world at large. And it _ hurts. _ It hurts so unbearably bad, he feels like a knife has been plunged deep into his very soul, and he can’t pull it out without killing himself in the process. Continuing to cry, Jon let’s himself scream into Orsinov’s chest until his throat is raw and dry, until all he can do is lay in her arms, weighing her down towards her bed in the vain hope that it’ll keep them both here for eternity. But of course, the archivist knows that as certain as the Unknowing’s demise is, so too is his inevitable defeat in all things that might bring him happiness. Good god, no wonder he and Orsinov are such a good fit as Little and Caregiver; they’re both miserable, lonely, inevitable losers. Soon enough, Jon knows he will either be cast onto the street or sent back to the institute, to Elias’s cold, unloving arms- at this point, he isn’t even sure which would be worse- but for now he keeps clinging to his mother, desperate to believe that this is all just a sad, unrealistic nightmare, and in a few minutes, he’ll wake up crying in Orsinov’s arms, and she’ll never let him go, not ever again. But he won’t, and with all the malice he can carry in his lithe, starving frame, Jon hates the universe for forcing such a fate upon him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta admit, this hurt me like nothing else, so now y’all get to hurt alongside me! Only a chapter or two left of this story, and then I hope to start working on a few more Classification AU related fics. Feel free to comment on this chapter if you liked it!


	5. Bloody Baby Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, baby!!! Seriously though, I'm so sorry this took so long; writer's block was kicking my ass, but I think I've finally got it under control!
> 
> Okay, so in all honesty, I WANTED this to be a happier chapter, but of course my self-projecting ass couldn’t help but pour more angst onto the fire, so yeah, this chapter is gonna be fucking ROUGH in that is has a brief moment of a character self-harming (He does NOT cut himself; Jon slams his forehead against a concrete floor several times and ends up with a concussion and a large gash on his head, but he doesn’t attempt s****** or anything quite like that); it’s a pretty sad chapter, so I won’t blame anyone if they gotta quit the story or skip the self-harm part. Either way, I love you guys, and I hope you have an awesome day!
> 
> The self-harm starts at the part where Jon says _“I… I can’t do this”_ and then ends at the beginning of the paragraph that starts with _“After a few more blows”;_ if you get triggered by blunt force trauma related self-harm, I would skip this part if at all possible. Please let me know if a more specific trigger warning is necessary.

When Jonathan Sims received his classification results in the mail at sixteen years old, he remembers his grandmother getting upset and storming out of the room, grumbling something about him being too high maintenance for anyone to bother adopting him. That had hurt him then, but even after he went to his room and cried on and off for the rest of the day, he remembered what his classification result told him about himself. A low maintenance Little, outside of semi-frequent panic attacks; he would make for an excellent child for anyone with a simple lifestyle who wanted to adopt him, and once news had spread in his neighborhood, a few of Jon’s classmates had even offered to adopt him after graduation. He had turned them all down of course, the scolding words of his grandma echoing in the back of his mind, telling him he’s not good enough, will cause too many problems for anyone to keep him for more than a few months. After all, if she had been given the choice, she would’ve left him on the steps of the closest (or maybe furthest, all things considered) orphanage she could find, and she never let him forget it. Her words have stuck with Jon all his life, causing him to push away friends and caregivers alike, until finally, he thought he could escape his classification while working at the Magnus Institute, where it was frowned upon to discuss classifications in the workplace.

Of course, Jon feels no such freedom here, sprawled out on the floor of his playpen with a pacifier firmly strapped into his mouth. He got in trouble a short while ago for cursing at Sarah and throwing blocks at her, leading Orsinov to put him in timeout until he “calms down a little and acts like the good boy she knows he is,” but that’s never going to happen. Jon’s mad-  _ furious  _ really- and he’s not going to let Orsinov forget that, just as Gran never let him forget how very unwanted he was. Resentment, he believes, may very well be a birthright, and he will be damned if he doesn’t use his to its fullest. He rolls over onto his stomach, glaring at all the monsters that pass him by, hating them for not taunting or even looking at him. Jon hates them all. Deep down he knows that he’s not really mad at Orsinov or even the circus, he’s mad at the situation he’s in, but he can’t bring himself to care. Orsinov had the gall to make him feel loved and wanted, and now that’s going to stop as soon as she can dump him on Elias again. The archivist bites his lip to keep from crying at the thought. He honestly wishes Orsinov would just kill him instead, to spare him from another fake caretaker’s loveless embrace, but apparently she isn’t sympathetic enough to do that for him. For that reason, and many others, Jon has chosen to become the brat his grandmother said he would be, if only to enact some type of bloody revenge.

After a good half hour of silent time out, without even the drone of the TV to entertain him, Jon sees Orsinov appear from the backstage of the theatre, the ringmaster making her way over to Breekon and Hope, who’ve been helping to carry the heavier props to their rightful places onstage. She spares Jon a mournful look from afar, but he refuses to even glance at her eyes, secretly fearing her pity; it’ll just make him feel guilty for acting out, and he can’t afford to be complacent anymore.

“Yoohoo, boys,” Orsinov shouts, striding to where Breekon and Hope are double teaming to carry a large wardrobe. “Would you two please stop for a moment and let the little Archivist out of his playpen? I believe his timeout should be finished by now.”

_ The  _ little Archivist, not  _ her  _ little Archivist. Jon can’t help but growl under his breath, latching onto that tiny detail. He knows Orsinov didn’t mean it like that, but he’ll take anything as ammunition to justify his ongoing tantrum.

“Aw, do we got to, boss?” Breekon asks, looking none too pleased to be given such a dreaded assignment. Jon revels in his fear of him, something about it making his hunger wane just the smallest bit.

“Yeah, he keeps bitin’ us and screamin’ when we touch ‘im!” Hope complains, sounding almost more uneasy than his partner in crime.

“Well, he’s certainly not allowed to be doing any of those things, even to you two boys. But now that he’s had a good, long timeout, I think he’ll be ready to be a good boy again,” Orsinov says, brushing off her minions’ complaints as little more than needless chatter. “If he acts up again, come get me, won’t you? Good luck, boys!” With that, she’s running back offstage, having too much busywork to stick around. Just another thing that Jon resents her for right now.

“Dammit…” Breekon mutters, glancing between the door Orsinov ran out and Jon, who sends him a none too pleasant smirk.

“Lookit da lil’ biter, grinnin’ at us like a shark.” Hope observes, visibly gulping at the display. It makes Jon want to laugh, amused that he’s making two monsters scared instead of it being the other way around.

Breekon nods, copying Hope’s fearful gulp. “Yeah… best we get dis over ‘n done wid then.” He says, and just like that he’s striding towards the playpen, Hope right on his heels.

The two delivery men pause at the gate for Jon’s playpen, giving him twin uneasy stares, and if they were anything close to human, the archivist’s certain they’d be sweating. “Alright, junior… be a good boy, wontcha?” Hope all but begs, beginning to fumble with the lock on the gate.

“Yeah, don’t go actin’ up now… ya mama wouldn’t like it if ya did that.” Breekon points out, hoping that Orsinov’s disappointment is enough of a threat to keep the prisoner in check.

Jon is very tempted to roll his eyes- as if he cares what Orsinov thinks anymore- but he doesn’t, if only to guarantee he gets out of this damn playpen. Instead he remains placide as the gate is unlocked and opened, though the delivery men hesitate in the entryway still, as if waiting for him to pounce on them at any moment.

After a long pause, both men sigh with relief. “Easy there, lil’ one.” Hope whispers, stepping into the playpen and crouching in front of Jon, Breekon doing the same but on the other side of the archivist.

“Let’s jus’ get dis off ‘a ya… no bitin’ now, ya hear?” Breekon says, very gently unclipping the pacifier, though he dares not pull it out, leaving that task to Hope.

“Damn blighter.” Hope grumbles, shooting Breekon a glare before, with all the tentativeness in the world, he pops the pacifier out of Jon’s mouth.

Jon opens and closes his mouth experimentally, ignoring the way both monsters tense up at the action, but when he doesn’t lunge at either man, they sigh with relief again.

“Glad ta see you’ve calmed down some, junior.” Breekon says, ruffling Jon’s hair affectionately like he used to, before the man he’s keeping as a prisoner started acting out.

“Let’s see ya keep it up some!” Hope agrees, daring to chuck Jon under the chin.

Jon contemplates biting Hope’s finger as hard as he can, but he bites his own tongue instead, wanting to wait until there’s a bigger opening to do anything drastic. Besides, hurting a member of the circus isn’t his goal this time. No, he plans on doing something much more extreme; he’s going to fuck up their ritual as well as he possibly can. He’s certain it’ll end badly for him, especially if the thing pretending to be Sarah Baldwin catches him in the act, but if it’s Orsinov who finds him… maybe, just maybe, she’ll see that the ritual is pointless and go back to loving him. It’s a very stupid plan, and were he in an older headspace, he’d know better than to try, but Jon is far past being reasonable or cautious. He wants to make the Stranger  _ hurt  _ for showing him love, only to take it away and make him realize just how badly he yearns for it. Once certain that the archivist won’t be causing anymore trouble, the delivery men leave him be, needing to return to their work onstage if they want to be ready for the Unknowing. As Breekon and Hope step away, Jon crawls out of his playpen, staying on all fours to keep up the illusion that he’s following the rules. After glancing around, he smirks, as no one’s paying any attention to him.  _ Perfect. _ Careful not to make too much of a ruckus, the archivist slips out of the auditorium, making his way towards the large storage rooms of the wax museum.

He actually isn’t all that sure what he plans on doing in order to tamper with the Unknowing, as he still doesn’t know how to stop it. It’s going to be some kind of dance, right? If there’s music, can he break some CDs or something? No, that would actually make sense, and in Jon’s experience, things that make sense almost never work against creatures of the Stranger. He crawls for some time, his knees beginning to ache under the pressure, but he ignores the pain in favor of moving forward, the thought of revenge keeping him going. Eventually he finds a set of tall double doors with a warning sign on one of them, while the other has a homemade one; “CIRCUS SUPPLIES.” Jon can’t help but grin, wiggling in place as he stares at the sign; this is  _ exactly  _ what he was looking for. He shoves the door open with both hands, crawling in before they can slam shut. Inside, the room the archivist finds is utterly  _ massive, _ looking almost as large as the auditorium, though the effect is hampered by the sheer volume of shipping crates that take up most of the room. Jon glances over them with wide, curious eyes, wishing he could See what’s inside of them all, but his eyes aren’t ready for that yet. Huffing, he leaves them be for now, scuttling further into the room in search of some supplies that have been haphazardly left out, as he doubts he can get a shipping crate open by himself.

After only a minute or so of crawling, Jon has to stop, his knees burning from too much exertion. “Dammit,” He growls under his breath, looking around for help. He’s right by a shipping crate, and with crawling no longer being an option, he uses it as leverage to pull himself up, panting under the weight of his own body. “Bloody drugs… if anyone ever mentions muscle suppressants in front of me again, it’ll be too soon.”

It’s hard as hell, not to mention incredibly painful, but Jon takes to walking- well, more like  _ stumbling-  _ for the rest of his adventure, though his knees still ache with every step, likely having been rug burned from too much crawling. If Orsinov were here, she’d just pick him up and carry him instead of making him walk. At this thought, Jon huffs, shaking his head in an attempt to force it away for good. No, those times are long gone, as if they were ever really here to begin with. What was he  _ thinking, _ believing that a plastic shell of a woman genuinely loved him? The archivist wants to hate himself for it, and he definitely does, but the rational part of his brain knows that it isn’t his fault, and it isn’t even really  _ Orsinov’s  _ fault either; it’s the Unknowing’s fault (and also maybe Sarah’s; Jon’s brain can’t make him stop hating her anytime soon). Maybe, if he’s fortunate, he can find a way to make the Unknowing pay for daring to exist and ruin his life. Jon trudges deeper into the storage room now, ducking behind impossibly tall stacks of shipping containers and stepping over unorganized cables, until finally, he finds the perfect target for his revenge; a large, tangled pile of electrical wires, the collection sporting a rainbow of different colors and thicknesses. Good god, it’s  _ beautiful…  _ and very,  _ very  _ easy to tamper with, given the right materials and enough effort.

Jon glances around, looking for anything that might spark some inspiration. He hopes to find something big and sharp, like garden shears or some actual cable cutters, but he doesn’t see any nearby. He considers going back to the auditorium for supplies, where he’s fairly certain there’s quite a few pairs of cable cutters and power tools that no one would miss lying around, but he seriously doubts he can get away with stealing anything like that, even when he’s wearing overalls that could more easily hide them. There’s no getting around it, then; he’ll have to find some help from inside the storage room. Determined not to fail, Jon searches his surroundings more intently now, eyes scanning each and every object. Soon enough, he finds something at least a  _ little  _ promising; gasoline. There’s a few canisters of it available, and given a few good swings once he’s got the caps off, Jon’s fairly sure he could douse the whole pile of cables with just one or two of them. Now all he needs is a light…  _ aha! _ Glancing to the left of the gasoline, the archivist spots a small cart with… a  _ flamethrower  _ on it. Dear god, that thing is  _ huge; _ can he even lift it!? Stepping closer, Jon looks it over, relieved to see that it’s already full of fuel and ready to go.

With all the strength he can muster, Jon picks the weapon up, groaning under the weight of it. Well, at least he can pick it up, but not for too long, and he certainly isn’t going anywhere with his new toy. He laughs at the thought, imagining a Caregiver of the Desolation- if there even are any- giving something like this to their Little in order for them to wreak havoc. Now  _ that  _ would make for a  _ very  _ interesting statement. Pushing the thought aside, Jon sets his flamethrower back down and douses the pile of cables in gasoline, glad to see that he was right in assuming he wouldn’t need much. Now all it needs is a match, yet even as the prisoner picks back up the flamethrower and stares at the cables, imagining them as the source of all his suffering… he hesitates. He knows that he has every right to destroy these cables, that any normal person would probably congratulate and encourage him to do so, but still he finds himself unsure. What will Orsinov do, when she sees what he’s done? Will she kill him? Keep him? Jon trembles under the weight of his restless mind, not knowing what to do. He wants revenge, to lash out at the world, but he doesn’t want to hurt his mother, not ever. He just wants things to go back to the way they were; is that too much to ask!? Maybe. Either way, he knows he can’t do this anymore. Fitfully he drops the flamethrower to the floor, tears beginning to pool in his eyes.

“I… I can’t do this,” Jon whispers, voice growing hoarse. In a moment of frustration and anger, he throws himself ass first to the concrete floor, not caring that it hurts. “Goddammit, why can’t I  _ do  _ this!? I just… I hate this.  _ I hate this!” _ He screams the words as loudly as he can, his throat aching at the exertion, but he doesn’t care; if anything, he revels in the pain, wanting to be the one burning if he can manage it. At least  _ then  _ he knows he wouldn’t hesitate.

Growling under his breath, Jon sits up on his knees and begins to beat his thighs with shaky fists, wanting to hurt something, anything, even if it’s himself. “I  _ hate  _ this…” He repeats, so low and frightening that even  _ he  _ shivers, though he’s tempted to chalk that up as him trembling, as that’s usually one of the things that happens when he gets worked up like this, even if it rarely happens at all. Frustrated, Jon kneels on all fours, and without hesitating, he slams his head into the floor, shouting out of reflex at the newfound pain, but he repeats the motion anyway, wanting it to hurt more. He headbutts the floor again, and again, and again, eyes squeezed shut to keep the blood out.

After a few more blows, Jon collapses to the floor, regressing back into littlespace as the high of his adrenaline wears off. He lies still for a good few minutes, struggling to breathe. Why does his head hurt so bad? It’s never hurt this bad before, not even after he’s read really scary stories at work! The archivist tries to sit up, but the pain spikes at once, and with a sob, Jon lies down in a thin pool of his own blood, not quite registering what it is yet. He slowly opens his eyes, only to squeeze them shut when they’re burned by the fluorescent ceiling lights overhead. Ugh, he  _ hates  _ these kinda lights; why are they even _ here!? _ He could’ve sworn Mommy took them all down  _ weeks  _ ago. Jon suddenly freezes in place, his stomach dropping. Hold on a minute… where’s his  _ mother?  _ His head’s been hurting so bad, it’s no wonder he forgot, but it still bothers him that he doesn’t know where she is. Is she nearby? Does she know why his head aches and stings so much? This time, Jon refuses to buckle under the pressure, forcing his body onto it’s knees with a groan. He looks down, eyes widening at the sight. That’s a  _ lot  _ of red paint… was he finger-painting? No, that’s not right; he’s not allowed to paint on the floor, at least not without Mama’s permission. Jon pokes one of his fingers into the liquid, pulling it up to sniff at the substance. He recoils, the smell reminding him of his gran’s rusty old car. Is he in a garage? With how dark and grey it is in here, it seems likely.

Well, Jon’s never much liked cars, and he’d rather be with his mother than in some weird smelling garage, so he decides it’s best if he gets out of here as soon as he can. He tries to stand up, his knees shaking like nothing else, and with a sob he plops back down in the rusty-smelling paint, grimacing as it soaks through the seat of his overalls. Mama’s not going to be happy when she sees what a mess he’s made, but maybe it’ll lead to a nice, warm bath. Jon smiles at the thought, wanting that more than anything right now. He’s already dirty, so without much forethought he rolls onto his knees, surprised when they burn in pain like his head, but with more of a dull ache to it. What happened to his  _ knees? _ Did he fall down? Goodness gracious, something is  _ very  _ wrong here, and Jon needs to find out what it is. Someone should really be watching him right now- if not Mommy, then at least Beak and Hope- so he settles on going to look for them. Ignoring the icky sensation of crawling in wet overalls, Jon scuttles away from the pool of paint, scooting between a number of impossibly large boxes on either side of him. This place reminds him of a jungle gym, and were it not for the pain he’s in, he’d be quite tempted to climb up and play, maybe pretend to be a superhero, but now isn’t the time. Soon enough, Jon makes it out of the box maze, spotting a tall, beautiful figure in the doorway of the room.  _ There she is! _

_ “Mama! _ Mama Mama Mama!” Jon yells, trying to scamper closer to his mother, but he trips on his wet knees, falling face first into the concrete.

“Little Archivist? Oh my  _ god!”  _ Orsinov comes running over in no time flat, her shocked expression doing nothing to make Jon any less anxious. She kneels down and scoops the man up, holding him against her plastic chest so she won’t lose her grip on him. “Sweetheart, what on earth  _ happened  _ to you!? Oh no, are you  _ bleeding!? _ What happened, little one?” Her voice box squeaks in surprise, the sound high and panicked.

Jon squirms in Orsinov’s embrace, even more confused than her. “Mama, my head hurts,” He whines, shoving his face against her shoulder. “It hurts really,  _ really  _ bad… where are we? Why’s there red paint over there?” He raises his head a bit and points in the direction he came from, an unhappy grimace on his face. He looks up to meet Orsinov’s eyes, his own brimming with tears. “Mommy, I’m scared… what’s goin’ on? Why’s everything hurt so bad?”

“Oh  _ god…  _ Breekon! Hope! Get in here  _ now!” _ Orsinov screams their names so loud, it causes Jon to sob, the high volume making his head throb. As a result, the ringmaster quickly takes to bouncing her Little, trying to sooth him the best she can. “Sorry, my baby, Mommy’s  _ so  _ sorry… she didn’t mean to.”

“That hurts, Mama!” Jon complains, trying to pull away from Orsinov, but she won’t let go of him. Why won’t she stop bouncing him? It hurts! “Stoppit, stoppit! Dat hurts!” He repeats, kicking and squirming now, which only goes to irritate the gash on his forehead, causing more blood to leak down his face and get into his eyes.

Orsinov makes a sound akin to a sob, finally giving up on bouncing the archivist. “My  _ poor  _ baby,” She whispers, pressing her chin against Jon’s bloody forehead in a sad attempt at a kiss. She keeps it there, letting it clog up some of the bleeding. _ “Shh… _ it’ll be alright, sweetie. Mommy’s here.”

A few seconds later, Breekon and Hope finally arrive, their expressions turning grim when they see the state Jon’s in. “Aw  _ blimey.”  _ Breekon whispers in horror.

“What happened to ‘im, boss!?” Hopes asks the question he knows both he and Breekon need answered, his eyes wide as he gapes at the Little.

“I don’t  _ know!”  _ Orsinov snaps, unable to keep from yelling again. Jon sobs, inspiring the clown to start carding one of her hands through his blood matted hair. She then meets Breekon’s eyes, her own glassy yet full of fear. “Go get the first aid kit! Do you understand me? Hop to it, you big oafs!”

“O-On it, boss.” Breekon replies in such an unsteady voice, he sounds like he’ll break into shards of porcelain and skin at any moment.

“We’ll be back lickity split!” Hope adds, taking off like a bat out of hell alongside Breekon, the two delivery men booking it for the nursery on the other side of the museum.

All the while, Jon buries his face in Orsinov’s shirt, bawling from the pain of it all. “Wanna get down now, Mama!” He says, slowly beginning to remember why he’s here and what happened, but his littlespace is still having a very big effect on him.

“I can’t, baby boy; you’re injured,” Orsinov explains, holding Jon away from herself so she can look him over more properly, her eyes scanning him for any trace of foul play. “What happened to you, my little Archivist? Who did this to you?”

Jon gulps, wetting his diaper with fear. Will she hate him if she finds out? Even if it would be easier to blame someone else, the Little doesn’t think he has it in him to lie, especially not to his mother. Tears trace down his face as he takes a deep breath, his voice coming out wobbly and unsure. “I-I did this, Mommy… I was gonna do s-somethin’ really  _ bad,  _ but then I f-felt really bad about it, so I w-wanted to hurt myself for being bad. I’m s-sorry, Mama, please don’t hate me anymore!” He then squeezes his eyes shut, preparing to be bent over Orsinov’s knee or tossed across the room at any moment. However she chooses to punish him, he just hopes it’ll make him pass out quickly; he doesn’t know how much more pain he can take today.

Orsinov’s eyes widen in horror, much to Jon’s surprise. He was expecting her to be much, much angrier than this. “My sweet little curiosity… oh honey, I could  _ never  _ hate you, not ever!” She pulls Jon into a tight hug, snuggling her cold cheek against his, not caring if her hardened  _ ‘skin’  _ gets stained with his blood.

“B-But I’m s-so  _ bad…  _ ‘n the dance! I was gonna m-mess it up, Mommy!” Jon insists, not understanding why his mother is being so merciful. She should be beating him senseless, not showing him affection! Does she not understand how these things work? Guardians are supposed to yell and hit you when you’re bad, not  _ comfort  _ you!

“Of  _ course  _ you were acting up, baby,” Orsinov takes it all in stride, understanding her baby so much better than most would expect. “You’re upset that Mommy has to go away soon, and you wanted to get rid of what you think is causing her to… I’m so,  _ so  _ sorry, Jon; Mommy shouldn’t have been pushing you away like she has been. She just wanted it to hurt less for her, that’s all.”

“I’m s-sorry too!” Jon says, burying his face in Orsinov’s shirt again to cry even harder than before, the pain making him dizzier with every passing second. He still doesn’t get why Orsinov is being so kind to him, but he’ll take whatever he can get at this point.

Soon enough, the archivist falls asleep, the vertigo forcing him unconscious just as Breekon and Hope return with an impossibly large first aid kit.

* * *

“All comfy, baby? Need anything other than your bottle? Maybe a little something to eat or a toy to play with?” Orsinov asks in a soft, maternal voice, her hands clutching the top bar of the crib in a rather protective manner as she waits for the archivist to respond.

Jon hums in thought, before quietly shaking his head. He’s bundled from the neck down in a variety of soft blankets and quilts, with what might very well be a hundred stuffed toys piled on top of him. There’s an ice pack on his bandaged forehead, working as a numbing agent to combat his concussion.

“If you say so, my little curiosity. Mommy will be  _ right  _ back; she just needs to get you your baba, okay? Be a good boy~!” Orsinov orders, pressing a quick peck to Jon’s cheek before she’s scurrying out the door, careful to lock it on her way out.

Jon let’s out a sigh of relief once she’s gone, squirming around to try and get his arms free, but alas, Orsinov has swaddled him to the point that he’s more or less tied down to the mattress, and he has no hope of getting free anytime soon. Not that he’s planning on running away or anything of the like, it would just be nice if he could move a little more, that’s all. At the very least, he doesn’t really  _ need  _ to grab anything for himself right now, as Orsinov was careful to tuck Cadet in alongside him before she left, making the Raggedy Ann and her owner look like two very sickly Victorian children on their deathbed. It’s been a tough two days since Jon hurt himself. He honestly doesn’t recall most of the incident, the majority of it being a blur of pain, tears, blood, and a fair amount of screaming, but he knows that whatever he did, it’s caused Orsinov to be incredibly protective of him again. On one hand, he’s happy to have his mama back, but on the other, he feels guilty over the fact that it took an emergency to get them to spend time together again. Is this all their relationship is going to  _ be  _ now? With Orsinov pushing him away in a vain attempt at softening the blow for herself while she waits for Elias to come and steal her baby back from her (something he might  _ never  _ do), only for Jon to have a meltdown and hurt him himself to get her attention back? The archivist hopes not. He loves the circus’s ringmaster to death, and the last thing he wants is for her bond with him to feel like even more of a burden than it most likely already does.

With a deep sigh, Jon shakes his head. No, his mother has assured him countless times that she loves him, and wants nothing more than to keep him to herself for the rest of eternity, but it just wouldn’t work out for either of them. Jon’s starving without his statements, something he feels more acutely now that he’s stuck in bed, and for both his and Orsinov’s well-being, they have to separate. It hurts more than anything else- more than his bruised knees, than his concussed head, than his exhausted eyelids- but it’s a pain that can be lived through, if he tries hard enough. Jon turns his head and kisses Cadet’s cheek, his dry lips nearly catching on the old fabric of his stuffie; at least when he leaves, he can bring her with him for company, a token of his mother’s love until he can reunite with her. It’s going to be hard to recover for a long,  _ long  _ time once he gets back to the institute, but it is do-able, and the archivist is nothing if not stubborn when he wants to get something done; he just needs that something to be coping with the loss of a second mother. Jon rolls onto his side, nuzzling his cheek against Cadet. Goodness, he could really use a nap. Letting out a loud yawn, the man shuts his eyes and dozes, barely awake anymore as he tries to get some much needed shuteye. However, just as he’s slipping into dreamland, he hears the door creak open, which he finds the slightest bit odd; Mama usually knocks first.

Jon cracks an eye open, smiling in preparation for his Caregiver’s return, but the colors he sees appear off. Is that actually Orsinov? He opens both of his eyes now, squinting at the flashing lights that speckle his vision, and without his consent, the archivist quivers, eyes widening in horror at the sight before him.

“Hello again, Archivist,” Michael greets, voice soft yet full of static. He tilts his head too far to the left, smiling wider than should be humanly possible at Jon. “It’s been a  _ long  _ time since we last saw each other, hasn’t it? I’ve been  _ so  _ looking forward to this~!”

Jon gulps, eyes growing wet as he tries not to outright sob with fear.  _ “Please hurry, Mommy.”  _ He thinks, praying that Orsinov won’t be gone much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a bastard for writing this, but I can’t bring myself to be TOO regretful. After all, it’s finally time for Michael (and my very dumb and unneeded Hot Take that Caregivers can also be manipulated/abused in this sort of universe)!!! I think there will only be one or two chapters after this one, and then I can finally do other stuff for this AU. Thanks for reading, and I hope to hear your guys’ thoughts in the comments!


	6. Cradle Robbing Doorways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is gonna be quite a bit shorter than the last couple, but I felt like it would be odd to add anymore onto it, so I’ll save the rest for the next chapter! I tried doing my best writing Michael here, but I’m worried he came out wrong, so I’m sorry in advance; I LOVED his speech in MAG 101, but I didn’t want to copy-paste it or anything of that nature, so you guys get the shitty retelling here. Nonetheless, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

Jon is painfully rigid, eyes locked with Michael’s as he tries to process what exactly he’s looking at here. For a long while- or perhaps not that long at all, but it’s hard to tell when there’s no clocks nearby- the two male identifying avatars simply watch each other, the less experienced of the two far more cautious than anything else. After a few tense seconds, Michael grins again, the too-long teeth in his mouth vibrating to the point that they’re a blur of white and black. If the smile was supposed to sooth Jon in any way, it didn’t work, as the archivist only squirms in response. For a moment, Jon contemplates hiding his face in the fleece of Cadet’s body and wailing for his mother, and he’s very close to doing just that, but he’s afraid that too much noise might trigger Michael to attack him, and he's not about to die here. As the prisoner considers his options, Michael takes a weird, uneven step into the nursery, his legs not working the way they should, and yet they hold him up without any obvious strain. The tall creature stumbles around the room, looking this way and that, his smile never wavering as he seems to drink in the scenery. Jon watches him the entire time, all while subtly beginning to sit up in bed, though it makes his head pulse with pain. Without meaning to, he let’s out a low, strained whimper and curls in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut to combat the ache.

When Jon opens his eyes again, he finds Michael at the foot of the crib, his massive hands clutching the top bar so hard that it’s beginning to splinter. The archivist yelps without meaning to, attempting to leap away from the monster, but this only earns him a sore back as it slams against the opposite end of the bed.

At this, Michael audibly chuckles, the sound far too loud and admittedly a bit irritating. _ “Hahaha… _ such a  _ pitiful _ little thing,” He teases, voice crackling with energy. He tilts his head so far to the right that it looks close to falling off. “Look at you, so helpless and alone… I could do anything to you right now, and you wouldn’t be able to stop me, would you? You’re completely helpless, just as you’ve always been.”

Jon swallows, praying internally that he can keep himself from hyperventilating into a full blown panic attack. “Nikola will be back soon,” He says, having to nip his tongue to keep from calling her by a more maternal name. “Last I checked, the Spiral and the Stranger don’t get along as well as one might think… she’ll kill you if she finds you here.”

Michael laughs again, his eyes crinkling at the corners; it’s the most human-like expression he’s made since he got here. “She most certainly will, Archivist; without any hesitation whatsoever. I suppose it’s a good thing then that she can’t get in, yes? It’s just you and me here, for as long as I see fit.”

Jon can’t help but shiver, eyes widening at the thought of being locked in a room with Michael, but he straightens his back and glares at the monster in order to resist his fear, wanting to prove to both Michael and himself that he’s not as helpless as he looks. “I’m not afraid of you.” He growls, sharp and unyielding.

This time Michael  _ howls _ with excitement, body shaking and spasming like a glitch on a computer screen, and Jon would be lying if he said that the sight didn’t make him want to crawl under his crib and hide. “Yes I do.” The Spiral monster says, so matter-of-factually that Jon doesn’t even  _ know _ how to begin arguing with him.

For a few minutes, Michael continues to squeal and make a mess of his inhuman body and self, all while Jon just  _ gapes _ at the sight, not sure how to react, if he even should. How on  _ earth  _ did this beast look human enough a year ago to not scare Sasha away on sight? At the thought of her, the archivist can’t help but clutch his doll, both hands shaking violently as he silently wills himself not to cry for her; he’s done enough of that already, and he knows by now that no amount of tears will bring anyone back to life, especially not the people he loves. So even as he teeters on the edge between big and small, leaning more towards the latter, Jon keeps his eyes on Michael and, ever so slowly, he reaches a hand to the side, grabbing hold of one of the bars of the crib. Still refusing to look away from the monster, he starts to pull himself to his feet, preparing to get up and run. Where he hopes to go, he has no idea. The door to the Spiral is closer, but he knows better than to go in there; his best option is to get to the door to the museum, and even if it might not open, he can pound on it and scream for help. Just as Jon begins to lift himself, Michael  _ flinches  _ out of nowhere, his laughter abruptly stopping. In seconds he’s on the side of the crib the prisoner is holding onto, and without warning he’s ripping Jon off of the bar with one hand, the other shoving the archivist in the chest to make him fall over.

Jon can’t keep from shouting in surprise, tumbling back into the crib with no hope of resistance, as he still unfortunately has to take muscle suppressants while staying here. As the Little is left groaning on his back, the back of his skull pounding from where it slammed against one of the crib bars, Michael laughs again, this time with a tad less venom than before, but it’s still a cruel, inhuman sound.

“And where do you think  _ you’re  _ going,  _ Little  _ Archivist?” Michael asks, the word  _ ‘little’ _ coming out in a rather harsh tone, a sound Jon is unaccustomed to from the creature of the Spiral. Slowly, Michael leans into Jon’s personal space, his face centimeters from the other man’s. “Hm… you know, I  _ was  _ planning on just killing you as soon as I got here, to finish this game once and for all, but you just can’t keep from being interesting, can you? Of course, I  _ knew  _ you were a Little the moment we met- you can’t hide things like that from  _ me-  _ and yet… I think that makes me hate you even  _ more,  _ now that I’ve seen you like this.”

Jon can’t help but blink in surprise, not sure why that catches him off-guard. “Do you not like Littles?” He can’t keep himself from asking, curious of the creature’s response. It's not like it's unheard of for people to not like Littles- his grandmother is a wonderful if not overly cruel example- but it's rare that people say as much, seeing as most of society seems to think that hating Littles is amoral.

Michael smiles, all teeth and malice intent. “Oh heavens  _ no _ , but… I think you need to hear the whole story to understand my suffering, even if it isn’t in my best interest to tell you. I think you will see that there is… an  _ irony  _ here, concerning your classification compared to that of your predecessor,” He says, standing up straight with an unnatural crack of bone and skin; it makes Jon nearly gag, the sound unsettling him to his very core. Michael snaps his too-long fingers with ease, and just like that, a pink and yellow chair  _ sprouts  _ from the carpeted floor. With a flourish, the monster plops himself into his newfound throne, his legs folding up to rest against his chest, folding far too many times and without any actual consistency. “It’s time for you to hear a  _ story, _ Archivist. A story of the one before you, and how she betrayed a man who did nothing but adore her.”

Jon finds himself tensing up, some part of him not the least bit surprised to hear this. “Your voice… I think I heard it before, from an old tape. You were Gertrude’s assistant, weren’t you?”

Michael shakes his head so fast it looks like it could come flying off. “Oh no no no,  _ I  _ was never the Archivist’s assistant, but he whose body I now inhabit…  _ he  _ was, a very long time ago, by your standards at least,” The creature let’s out a sigh, settling in as he begins to recount another, long since dead man’s story. “Michael Shelley was an insignificant, worthless human being, but he loved very strongly, and very deeply, for he was a Caregiver to his core, and he wanted nothing more than to care for the elderly woman he called his boss, known to others as Gertrude Robinson. She treated him horribly, of course- she had no patience for his fussing, for his worry and over protectiveness- but she did not outright refuse his help, likely seeing his willingness to put up with her as a resource, which she would someday use to it’s fullest. She was an expert of her craft, and she adjusted young Michael just so, readying him for a sacrifice she knew would be necessary for him to make, or at least, she believed it to be necessary. She prepared Michael like a fine dish, and fed him to me without so much as an appetizer or garnish, giving him to me in all his stupid, naive glory. Good grief and alas,  _ poor  _ Michael… he was doomed from the moment he became a prisoner of that ivory tower, but he could not be saved, and in a way, I now know that he did not want to be.

“The way he was fed to me was tragic, as all things should be in a mortal’s life. Gertrude Robinson had taken Michael on many trips before, both benign and not, readying him for that cold, awful day. Needless to say, Michael was none the wiser to his dear Gertrude’s plans, and he foolishly assumed that their trip would be like all the others before it. She told him they were going to a town in Russia to investigate something, and he, too trusting and naive to research it himself, believed that this place existed, and agreed to accompany her on her journey,” Michael suddenly pauses, eyes glazing over, and for a brief moment, Jon thinks he sees what was really Michael behind those spinning irises. “Michael stood on the hull of the ship that Peter Lukas himself sailed them on, and stared over the open water. Gertrude stood beside him, and the moment she shivered, he put his jacket around her without a second thought, though he himself despised the cold. He adored her, in all her bitter scornfulness, and she did not care for him in the slightest. Her eyes became colder than the air around her, and her body was stiff like iron, something Michael had never seen in her before. He was beside himself, unaware that this was a warning sign of the horrors to come. Peter Lukas let the two of them off soon enough, deep in the Arctic, and without a word, Gertrude Robinson led Michael Shelley to his fateful demise.

“Michael began to truly worry as the two of them traveled across the thick, icy tundra. Where were they going again? Gertrude told him again; the title of a town that does not exist. She told him that she was to slay a great evil, and that he would be assisting her,” Michael stops again, tilting his head at Jon, and again, he looks almost human, his eyes so soft, yet the rest of his long, spindly body diminishes the effect. “Am I  _ evil, _ Little Archivist? For simply obeying my nature? Is the polar bear evil for eating the seal pup? Is the ant evil for feasting on the corpse of another? Does evil live in what you directly oppose? Gertrude Robinson may have believed these things, may have set herself apart from those of us who revel in what we are, and Michael, through his adoration of the woman in his company, believed these things as well. He believed everything, for that is what he believed a good Caregiver must do for those they love. He accepted his role to help the Archivist before you destroy me, and for that, he paid with his life. Gertrude Robinson led Michael to a door that should not have been there, in the midst of chill and ice, and gave him a map. Where she got it, I’ve no idea, but it led Michael to me… and in my ravenous hunger, I ate him whole. She must have planted something on him, tarnished what would have otherwise been a delectable meal, for he became me as I became him, and the rest of the It-Is-Not-What-It-Is disappeared, leaving me… well, like _ this.” _

Jon stares for a few moments at Michael, waiting for the beast with an innocent man’s likeness to tell him something more, perhaps more stories of Michael and Gertrude’s expedition, of the man Michael was before he was eaten, but instead the Spiral sits as still as it can, sated for the time being, and content to leave the archivist wanting. So  _ that’s  _ what happened to Michael Shelley… he was eaten by the Spiral, all because Gertrude took advantage of his classification. Good god, Michael wasn’t lying about this being ironic; Jon can certainly relate to the dead man’s plight. Although he never knew the man that was the original Michael- Jon was just a kid when this must have happened, long before he joined the Institute or knew what kind of monsters lurked in the dark- he finds himself feeling guilty for the poor soul. He knows his life as a Little is hard, something even society as a whole has trouble arguing against at this point, but  _ all  _ of the classifications have their downsides, and there are none so painful as the “invisible” downsides. It is the pain that comes from indirect servitude, from fulfilling the role of your classification without break or pause, for you are expected to be at peak performance at all times. Again, Jon knows he and Michael were in the same boat… not literally, of course, but it isn’t hard to discern his meaning.

“I’m… I’m  _ sorry,” _ Jon whispers, not sure what else to say to the creature before him. He knows Michael Shelley is long gone by now, and has been for several years now, but he still feels like he needs to say it. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Nothing in life is  _ fair, _ Archivist,” Michael says, with no sympathy or thankfulness in his voice. He doesn’t care if Jon’s sorry, and for some reason, that just makes the man feel even worse about the whole thing. “Least of all for poor, worthless Michael. What is there to be sorry for? He was destined to die tragically, and it is only fitting that this is how it would be, that I would be forced to wear the skin and body of the thing that undid me completely. In some ways, I love Michael, but in most, I hate him to my very core, for he has filled me with things that should never exist in the plane of existence that I reside inside of. He entered me and destroyed all that I was, so for that, I undid him as well as I could, though there was little more I could do but kill him. Perhaps I should have let him live, if only to see him suffer… but he was forced down my throat, and all I could do was swallow.”

Jon gulps without meaning to, his body shuddering with fear. “So… what  _ now?” _ He asks, subconsciously grabbing Cadet and hugging the doll to his chest, feeling the need to protect her from the monster before him.

_ “Now? _ Now, you  _ die. _ But not here, of course; can’t have I-Do-Not-Know-You finding a way inside and ruining everything,” Michael says, standing from his seat with another ear-splitting crack of bone, producing a whimper from the young archivist. “I think it’s best that I take you home, have a bit of  _ fun  _ before I rip you apart. Don’t think I’ll eat you like I did Michael, but I’ll still savor your fear to the fullest.”

Jon glances between Michael and the two doors in his room, glad that he can tell which one is real. “What if I screamed? What if I screamed, and Nikola came for me?” It’s probably dumb, to ask something like that instead of trying it for himself, but the prisoner can’t help but be curious.

Michael hums, tapping at his chin with one of his too-long, crooked fingers. “Hm… well, I suppose the center of the I-Do-Not-Know-You might finally find the strength to break through and save you, but  _ really  _ Archivist, do you  _ truly  _ want that? I can see you for what you are; there is nothing of you that can be hidden from me, once you have wandered my halls. You are a very lonely,  _ hopeless  _ man, and you have made the dire mistake of loving something that cannot keep you, much less continue to love you… how tragic that must be, but you are in luck, as I know that pain well, for it has been written into what I can only describe as my bones. If you stay here, you will be abandoned, just as you have been abandoned so many times before. Do you want that, Archivist? Do you want to be tossed away, just as Michael was? Take it from the beast that ate and digested him; there is no fate more horrifying than that, and you are better off coming home with me. At the very least, I promise you a much more pleasant death than the one you would inevitably give yourself, should you be left to your own devices for too long.”

Jon stares at Michael, silent tears trailing down his face. He sniffs, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his fist, yet they refuse to yield. “…Okay.” He whispers, so quiet that it would be easy to miss if the person talking to him was anything close to human anymore.

Michael grins like something close to a bobcat, clapping his hands once in excitement. The movement reminds Jon of Orsinov, making him start to hiccup through his tears.  _ “Excellent! _ Up you go then,” With a bit of pizzazz, the monster grabs Jon from under his armpits and lifts him out of the crib, setting him down on unsteady feet. He lets the archivist fall on his backside a few seconds later, chuckling at the display. “Such a sad,  _ pathetic  _ thing you are,” He says, and again, he sounds too much like Orsinov for Jon’s liking. “Come along then, right this way.” Michael instructs, helping Jon to his feet again and leading him to the Spiral’s door.

Jon hesitates, leaning on Michael for support as he eyes the door with such trepidation, much like how a young prince might eye the guillotine that took his mother and father’s heads. If he opens this door, he will most assuredly die, and he’ll never see his friends or Orsinov ever again. The thought makes Jon want to shove Michael away and scream for his mother, makes him want to stumble for the real door and slam his fists on it until they’re bloody and red, until Mama comes and makes everything better again. But… how long will things be better? Like Michael said, there’s only so much time Jon has before he’s handed off to Elias again, where all he’ll get is empty hugs and loveless touches. He’ll be back in the institute, where Martin worries too much, where Tim hates him, where Sasha is dead, where Melanie thinks he’s an idiot, where Daisy scares him, where Basira ignores his cries for help… where he’s useless, and not getting anything done. The Unknowing will happen, that much Jon is certain of now, and he still doesn’t know how to stop it. Hell, does he even  _ want  _ to stop it anymore? Not if it means killing Mommy or Breekon and Hope. He’s no good to his friends and coworkers anymore… if anything, he might be better off to them dead. Maybe this really  _ is  _ the best thing he can do for them, even if they’ll never learn of his sacrifice.

Slowly, Jon reaches for the doorknob with one hand, the other holding Cadet in a death-grip, and after closing his eyes, he moves to turn it… but it doesn’t budge.

“What?” Jon asks, puzzled by the lack of movement. Giving up on going into this blind, he cracks an eye open and wiggles the knob again. Still nothing. “It… it won’t open.” He tells Michael, his hand still on the doorknob as he looks to the monster for help.

Michael giggles, oddly enough. “Don’t be  _ silly, _ Archivist. It can’t be locked!” He says, taking this as some kind of joke.

“I’m serious!” Jon snaps, feeling all too much like he did when arguing with his grandmother as a small, angry child. “It won’t budge.  _ See?”  _ He messes with the knob a third time, if only to prove that he isn’t lying.

“You’re clearly playing a joke, and I will be as honest as I can be with you, Archivist; I no longer find it funny,” Michael says, slow and with danger lacing his voice. “Now open. The.  _ Door.” _

Jon huffs, hating Michael for not believing him. He’s not lying, dammit! “Here,  _ you  _ try!” He yells, letting go of the knob to hold Cadet with both arms and scowl up at Michael. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s when  _ ‘Big’  _ people think he’s making something up; it reminds him all too much of the Mr. Spider incident.

Michael all but rolls his eyes, shoving Jon out of the way, not even blinking when the man cries out in pain upon hitting the floor. “Such a fussy Li-” The monster goes to curse Jon under his breath, only to freeze in place when he sees that, indeed, the door is locked. Very slowly, Michael turns his head to look at Jon, and while the archivist is tempted to smirk victoriously at the beast, he finds himself freezing as well, shocked by the frightened look on the other male identifying creature’s face.  _ “Oh… _ oh no.” Michael whispers, and that is the last thing that anything dressed as Michael Shelley ever says.

Before Jon’s eyes, the thing that might have once been a Michael of some sort screams bloody murder, it’s voice autotuned but not, so loud and sharp that the prisoner’s ears bleed as it vibrates through his skull. In a scrambled rush of partially numb limbs, Jon scurries like an injured cat under his bed, as he doubts he has the strength to climb inside, and besides, he wants somewhere he can actually hide from what’s happening. From behind the pushed back curtain of a blanket hanging off of the crib’s railing, Jon peaks out at Michael, silently marveling at the explosion of colors and shapes in his bedroom, unable to do anything but watch as every light fixture bursts with a sizzling  _ pop,  _ causing the hiding man to jump in surprise and whimper with worry. Jon covers his eyes with both hands now, shivering as he presses Cadet into the carpet under him, not wanting her to see the monstrous show outside either. He’s going to die here, isn’t he? What will Orsinov do when she finds his corpse? The thought makes guilt-ridden tears spring to Jon’s eyes, the archivist hating himself for being in this position. Why didn’t he just force open the door and die far away like a good boy? Now Mommy’s gonna find his body and cry, and it’s all his bloody fault!

After what feels like an hour of blaring noise and too many colors flashing behind his eyelids, everything goes eerily still and quiet. Jon, aware of how these things sometimes occur, knows better than to move or speak- hell, he doesn’t even  _ whimper-  _ he just stays very still and waits. Something is still out there, Jon knows, as he can feel the presence of a living creature existing in this space with him, but it has yet to act or even really move. A few seconds pass much the same, until finally, the monster seems to regain its autonomy. It paces around in slow, tiny circles, as if trying to remember how to exist, and offhandedly, Jon wonders if there are other Spiral monsters that exist through the doorway. Did something come out of the door after Michael touched it? Did it kill Michael, or did he just leave it here to get rid of the archivist? The poor Little has no idea, but he knows that whatever just happened, it wasn’t supposed to, and that scares him more than anything else. The thing that is most certainly not Michael soon moves closer to the crib, going so far as to start grabbing things from inside and fussing with them. Jon doesn’t hear any tearing sounds, so it might not be ripping his blankets and stuffed animals apart, but he still isn’t about to check. However, at the sound of a heavier toy hitting the floor, Jon can’t help but yelp, slapping a hand over his mouth the second the sound comes out.

The monster freezes, and with his eyes now open, Jon spots two human-like feet centimeters in front of his face. The feet are wearing heels, and for some reason, he finds them familiar, but  _ how? _ He shudders, becoming more unnerved by the second.

Folding in a rather unnatural manner, the heel-wearing creature gets on it’s hands and knees, and suddenly, Jon sees a familiar face. “Hello? Are you… the Archivist?” The thing that is and isn’t Helen Richardson asks, her eyes impossibly wide and curious, having the same spiral shaped irises as Michael has… or had; Jon’s still figuring that part out.

“Helen?” Jon asks in turn, unable to keep from being happy to see her. “What… what are  _ you  _ doing here? What happened to Michael?”

“I was him, a little bit ago… but now I am not,” Helen explains, her eyes never leaving Jon’s face, a small, uncertain smile growing on her own. “I’m not  _ Helen  _ either, but I much like the name, so you may still call me that, Archivist.”

“Wh-Why aren’t you Michael no more?” Jon questions, not even aware of how small he sounds, his slip into littlespace being a natural reaction to such a strange change in circumstances.

Helen smiles a bit wider, not the least bit oblivious to what’s happening to the archivist. “He got… _ distracted.  _ He let the feelings of his corpse become him, and that would not do, so… I improvised, and found my way back to myself.”

Jon simply nods in agreement, not needing as much explanation to understand things when he’s in littlespace. “Okay,” He mumbles, and without hesitating, he pops one of his thumbs into his mouth, tilting his head as he looks at the monster before him. “So what's gonna happen now?”

Helen giggles, tilting her head the same way as Jon, but in a less instinctual fashion. “Hm… I suppose you need a door, don’t you?”

Jon shrugs, hardly worried about it. “E’rybody needs doors, I guess,” He admits, not understanding her meaning. “So I guess so, sure. But, um… are you gonna hurt me? ‘Cus I think ‘Ichael wanted to hurt me really bad. Like, really  _ really  _ bad.”

“No, I won’t hurt you anymore. That was Michael’s idea, not mine,” Helen assures, something about her voice actually coming off as a bit reassuring. “And Helen’s ideas are… more  _ consistent  _ now, even if that isn’t something I typically look for. She liked you, you know, so I’m inclined to help you, at least right now, while the mood suits me.”

Jon smiles. “Dat’s really nice ‘a you,” He says, and slowly, he comes crawling out from under his crib, giving Helen the chance to straighten up while he gets out. He stays on his knees, still sucking his thumb while his other hand holds one of Cadet’s cotton arms. “Can I go home now, please? Mama said I gots to soon.”

“If that is what you want, then yes,” Helen agrees, returning the man’s smile. She then hums to herself, seemingly puzzled. “Hm… I don’t believe you can walk in this condition, can you? No matter, as Helen was…  _ accustomed  _ to this, I think. Much like Michael was, but she was never hurt by it the way he was,” She kneels down, and with supernatural strength she scoops the archivist up, one hand supporting his backside while the other is free for her to use as she pleases. “There we are, all ready to go! Come along then, let’s see you somewhere a little less…  _ strange.” _ With ease, she heads to the Spiral’s door, which has now changed to different colors than before, and opens it, disappearing inside with Jon already beginning to doze off against her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so stressed about tonight's election, so I'm coping via age regression I guess… anyways, I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter, as I can't wait to share more with you all again soon (I hope)! Please comment/leave me your thoughts if you enjoyed this chapter, especially if you wanna talk world-building with me!


	7. Getting a Ride Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the absolute Legend that’s been writing the latest Little!Jon fics that I keep seeing in the tags; Anonymous author, whoever you are, you’re my fucking hero and I love you!

“Do you need anything else, sweetheart?” The receptionist asks, her voice silky smooth and kind.

Jon shakes his head. “No thank you.” He says, trying his hardest to be polite to the nice lady.

“Alrighty then! Thank you again for that phone number you gave me; it’ll make finding your Caregiver much easier for us! Until they get here, can you go with the nice security guard over there? She’s gonna take you to the playroom so you can have fun until someone comes to get you!” The receptionist explains, prompting a young woman in a security uniform to strut over.

“That’s right! Come on, the playroom’s this way, little one.” The guard says, grabbing Jon gently by the hand to lead him away.

“Okay, miss. Bye-bye!” Jon waves his goodbye to the receptionist as he’s led off, careful not to let go of his balloon in the process.

The receptionist smiles in return, but says nothing more, returning to her work of diligently typing something into her laptop while the security guard takes Jon down a long hallway, which is covered wall to wall in colorful posters. When Helen took him from the circus, it became clear rather quickly that Jon was too Little to tell her where to take him next, and seeing as she has no idea where the archivist lives outside of the institute, and she wasn’t keen on going there so soon after becoming herself… well, it’s no wonder that Little Protection Services took him. To be entirely fair, it wasn’t like it was a bad thing that someone intervened, as Helen had simply left Jon to wander a large park by himself until a police officer spotted him, but even deep in his littlespace the man remains anxious, afraid that he’ll be forced into the country’s adoption registry by the social workers around him. The kind woman behind the front desk- Yuko, if Jon remembers correctly- has assured him multiple times that this won’t be happening anytime soon, but the Little remains on edge nonetheless, holding the string of his green balloon a bit tighter with each step he takes. Yuko gave it to him when he was brought in, on the grounds that all lost Littles receive them when they get picked up. It’s a nice balloon, and with it being able to reach the ceiling if he lets go of it’s string, Jon sees it in his head as a big, all-seeing eye that’s keeping an “eye” on everything for him.

Despite the organization’s harsh reputation in America in particular, namely for all the times they’ve been made to detain Littles without their consent, the LPS in the United Kingdom is much less forceful than Jon initially feared after reading so many horror stories online. They’re still intending on keeping him here until someone comes to collect him, no doubt about that, but they haven’t treated him badly at all. As if proving this to be true, the security guard finally finds her destination, and with a short smile and wave, she corrals Jon through a set of double doors and goes back the way she came. Through the doors, the archivist is greeted by the sight of a huge gymnasium, which has been housed with a variety of oversized playground equipment. With the building doubling as an orphanage for age regressors, there’s a number of regressed Littles and Middles using the playground as they see fit, a few of them playing games cooperatively. Jon stays near the doors, although he’s tempted to go on the nice, unoccupied swing-set further in the gym, but that would mean being farther away from an escape route, and he has no intention of being in a dangerous situation. Careful not to draw attention to himself, Jon takes a seat on the floor, hugging Cadet as he eyes the room and it’s inhabitants, curious as to what everyone is doing.

It doesn’t take long for a security guard to come check on him, this guard being a man with long, black hair, which is tied into a low-hanging ponytail; he reminds Jon vaguely of the descriptions he’s read on Gerard Keay. “Hey there, lil’ buddy,” The guard greets warmly, giving Jon a careful once-over, his eyes lingering on the bandages wrapped around the archivist’s head. “What’s your name? You waitin’ here for somebody?”

Jon hesitates, wanting more than anything to just stay here until someone comes to get him- Grandma always told him not to talk to strangers- but it would probably be rude to stay silent, and besides, this person seems nice; he looks like Gerard, after all! “Um, my name’s Jon, and I’m waiting for my mum.” The Little says, hating how quiet his voice is, but he can’t bring himself to raise it any.

“Your mum, huh? Did you get lost from her or something?” The man takes a seat right next to Jon, apparently oblivious to how introverted the Little is. That, or he thinks that Jon could use a friend right now. “It’s always scary, losing your mum, but it’s a good thing somebody found you! Don’t worry, Jon, we’ll keep ya safe until she gets here, alright?”

Jon simply nods, having no intention of keeping the conversation going. At long last, the security guard seems to get the message, as after a good few minutes of tense silence, he gets up and goes back to keeping an eye on the age regressors using the playground equipment. Jon watches from afar, returning to his habit of observing people when bored; Elias tells him it’s a good habit to have. In a dissociative sort of way, the archivist envies the people around him, envies how easily they’re able to disconnect from reality and just live happy, carefree lives. Don’t these Littles, Middles, and Caregivers realize how  _ scary  _ the world is? Haven’t any of them come into contact with monsters or evil entities? Although he isn’t sure how, Jon can tell that none of these people have seen the worst that the universe has to offer, and therefore have no frame of reference to relate to him. None of them have been chased by worm monsters, or burnt by fire ladies, or kidnapped and then adopted by kind clowns. So Jon stays away from them, wanting to preserve that sense of safety in them, though he knows the older part of him wouldn’t have this level of discretion. That being said, the Little eventually just fusses with Cadet, maneuvering the doll in his hands as he imagines a fun adventure she could go on.

Just as he’s getting to the part where Cadet fights a worm dragon to save a handsome tea brewer, Jon feels someone’s eyes on him. He looks up the slightest bit, trying to spot whoever is staring at him. From a few feet away stands a tall, redheaded woman with a cute pink skirt on, and matching pink ribbons in her hair. The woman eyes Jon like he’s a butterfly or moth, her head tilted slightly as she stares unabashedly at his face. Without meaning to, the archivist draws his knees up to his chest, ducking his head to better hide himself. The woman frowns, looking ready to come over and bug him, but before she can another Little comes bounding over to her, begging her to come and play with him. This works, as the woman grins, following after who Jon can only assume is a friend of hers. Once she's gone, the archivist can’t keep back a long, exhausted sigh. He knows that the scars adorning his body aren’t exactly the prettiest, especially the array of indented scars on his cheeks and forehead from when Jane Prentiss’s worms almost ate him alive. He shivers at the memory and hugs Cadet closer, closing his eyes as he prays that Orsinov or someone else will come to get him soon; he hates it here, and he’d rather be with his family than a bunch of strangers.

But no one comes. Over three hours pass with next to nothing happening, save for Littles and Middles coming in and out of the gym. Before long it’s dinnertime, and as the age regressors are all herded out of the gym, the security guard from earlier gives Jon a double-take. “Wait, you’re still _ here, _ Jon?” He asks, genuinely shocked that no one’s come to get him yet.

Jon can’t help it; the minute he’s reminded of his loneliness, and therefore drawn out of his dissociative state, he bursts into tears, sobbing openly in front of everyone.

Some of the other regressors eye Jon like an alien, curious as to what’s got him crying, while the security guard rushes to make things right. “Whoa there, it’s okay, kiddo! Sorry, I didn’t mean to make ya cry none. Come on, how about you come join us for dinner, yeah? We’re having pot pie!”

Jon  _ hates  _ pot pie. He continues wailing, wanting nothing more than to crawl into his crib and go to sleep for a hundred thousand years. Not knowing what to do, the security guard gets the attention of another one nearby and relays the situation to her, keeping his voice down so Jon won’t overhear. The woman nods, her face full of understanding, and without a word she walks over to the archivist and picks him up, ignoring his sobbing so well it’s as if she doesn’t even hear him. In the arms of another, Jon clutches the guard and buries his face in her shoulder, trying to imagine this stranger as Mommy, but he knows it’s a lost cause; this lady isn’t dense or tall like Mama is. The security guard whisks Jon out of the gymnasium and back down the hall, though the man is unsure as to where exactly she’s taking him, just that it’s away from everyone else, so he’s automatically grateful. By the time Jon has collected himself and stopped crying so hard, the security guard takes him up a flight of stairs, and as she does so, the archivist spots a sign on the wall; “Floor 2: Nurseries.” Do these people somehow know that Jon regresses that low, even though he hasn’t told them yet? Apparently so, since he’s been brought to the nursery section of the building.

The security guard carries Jon into one of the empty nurseries, closing the door behind her once inside. “Here we go, buddy; somewhere nice and quiet,” The guard says, her smile artificial but trying it’s best to be patient. She sits Jon down on the floor, unable to keep from laying a gentle hand on his gauze wrapped forehead, making him flinch away. “Whoa, it’s alright, I’m just checking on it!” She assures, quick to follow Jon’s movement and keep her hand on him. “Hm… they don’t look  _ too  _ dirty, but we should change them out just to be safe and keep the wound clean. How’d ya get this big boo-boo, honey? Did you fall down?”

Jon determines that he’s not going to talk to someone who touches him without permission, so with a pout he averts his eyes, refusing to answer.

The guard sighs, but doesn’t argue. “That’s fine… you’re just a baby, aren’t you? You probably just need a nap, that’s all.”

No, he  _ needs  _ to go  _ home!  _ Jon huffs, glaring now at the security guard, who apparently agrees with him on some level that talking won’t make them friends anytime soon. However, she doesn’t ask permission before picking the man up again, producing a low, pathetic growl from his throat. The guard continues to ignore him, instead carrying him over to the Little changing station bolted into the wall of the nursery. She lays him down on the hard, plastic surface, making a point out of buckling him in so he can’t get up. The  _ minute  _ the woman let’s go of him, Jon tries to undo the safety lock, but it’s no use; it needs a passcode to be unlocked, which he doubts he can crack without more time. While the Little fusses with his bindings, the security guard gets out a few supplies from a nearby cabinet, pulling out a number of items from inside, namely a new roll of gauze and diaper changing supplies. At this, Jon bucks and kicks with a vengeance, not wanting to have his diaper changed by a total stranger; he wants  _ Mommy,  _ dammit! But of course, he will get nothing but demeaning treatment from this nameless stranger, as despite the Little’s fussiness, she refuses to leave him be, undoing his pants and tossing them aside as she goes about changing him, though Jon doesn’t make it easy.

“Come on, kiddo, it’s not a big deal; I gotta change you, or you might get sick!” The guard explains, wiping the man clean with one hand while the other struggles to keep his legs from kicking her.

“NO!” Jon screams as loudly as he can, thrashing about even harder as he’s touched in such a sensitive and private spot on his body. “No no no, let me  _ up!  _ I wanna go home!”

“No one’s come to get you yet, sweetie, so you gotta stay here tonight. But it’ll be okay, I promise,” The security guard says, finally done as she tapes a new diaper onto the Little. Once done, she goes about getting his bandages off, wincing as she sees the damage. “Wow, that’s a  _ really  _ bad boo-boo… did somebody put the boo-boo on you, honey?” She subtly pulls out her phone as she asks, ready to record the Little if he admits he’s been abused.

Even though he can’t see the phone in the guard’s hand, Jon freezes, feeling the weight of it in the air.  _ “No… _ just fell down.” He lies, hoping it’ll be enough to get the guard off his case. After all, if he told the truth, she wouldn’t even believe him. No one thought he was telling the truth when he told people that his grandma was mean to him, or when he talked about Mr. Spider, so no one will believe him now, right?

The security guard eyes Jon very,  _ very  _ carefully, clearly not believing him, but having no evidence to press him with. “Are you  _ sure, _ sweetie? No one can hurt you here, you know. If someone is hurting you, it’s our job to protect you from them, so you gotta tell us if someone’s put you through a lot of ouchies.”

Jon shakes his head again. “No one hit me,” He promises, eyes drifting up to the ceiling to avoid looking the woman in the eyes. “I just fell down.”

“…If you’re sure,” The guard mutters, eventually backing down, though she keeps staring at the man, eyeing him for anymore injuries. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and then into bed, alright? Do you wanna eat anything before bedtime?”

“No thank you. Not hungry.” Jon says, using his manners now that the situation has toned down a little.

“Alright, but I’ll grab you a bottle of water in case you get thirsty.” The guard insists, gently wrapping a new set of gauze around the man’s head.

Jon keeps quiet as she does so, stiff from head to toe with fear. What would happen if this lady thought he was being abused by someone? Would he be put up for adoption against his will? Without meaning to, he whimpers, terrified of such an outcome. In response, the security guard cards one of her hands through Jon’s hair as she searches the cabinet again, this time for a set of clothes. She must think the archivist is scared of his  _ Caregiver, _ not of being taken away from her forever. Doesn’t this woman realize how  _ feared  _ her organization is by Littles? How often her organization is the source of political discourse and discussions? Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t, but in either case, Jon decides here and now that he can’t trust her to be anything more than an enemy. He stays still now, not even kicking as the clothes he was in are removed, replaced with a plain grey onesie with no cute designs or fun colors; a standard issue outfit for Littles up for adoption. The thought makes Jon feel sick, prompting him to curl in on himself as soon as the security guard steps away. He turns onto his side, facing the wall so he doesn’t have to look at the plain, loveless room he’s in. He wants to go home so badly, he’d take anything over this nightmare.

“Here we go, a nice bottle of water for one sleepy baby,” The security guard coos, returning to the Little’s side with a baby bottle full of cold water. She sets it down on the floor as she unbuckles Jon from the table, pausing just as she’s about to let him out. “I’m gonna get you up in a second, but you have to promise to be good, understand? If you try to get out of your crib, we’re going to have to give you something to help you sleep, and I’m sure you don’t want that, so just be a good boy, alright?”

Jon gives a slow, shy nod.

Unfortunately, this isn’t enough for the guard. “Can you use your words please? I need you to agree with your voice, buddy.”

Jon huffs, tempted to curse the woman out, but he doubts that will help him any. “I’ll be good.” He assures, looking away as he says it.

The guard makes a face, appearing unconvinced by his answer, but she doesn’t argue with him over it. “Alright. Come on, it’s bedtime.” With that, she undoes the buckle and picks Jon up, carrying the small man to the crib in the corner of the room.

After being set in the crib, Jon hides underneath the only blanket available, wanting something he can use to hide himself and Cadet from the world.

The security guard chuckles at the sight, amused by the little one’s antics. “Goodnight, sweetheart. Get some good sleep, alright? I’ll come get you in the morning.” With that said, she makes for the door, shutting off the light on her way out.

With only a plain white night light to ease away some of the darkness, Jon sits in utter silence, feeling unbelievably out of place in this strange room. Where are all his plushies and toys? Where’s the rocking chair and the telly? Most importantly, where’s his white noise machine and the crib’s mobile? There’s nothing comforting about this place, not so much as a lullaby or storybook to help ease the archivist to sleep. Jon lies prone in his bed, terrified and alone. Will  _ anyone  _ come to get him from this place, or will he be trapped here forever, waiting for the help that will never come? Although he’s no celebrity, Jon likes to think that his face is at least recognizable, especially with all of his scars and his time spent as a fugitive. If the country has been notified of his disappearance, surely  _ someone  _ working here will eventually recognize him and contact the police, or at least the institute, right? In all honesty, both options scare the daylights out of Jon, but they’re both far better than being put up for adoption, or even worse, being trapped here forever. Fitfully, the man rolls onto his side, willing himself to try and sleep, for fear of someone coming and forcing drugs down his throat if he doesn’t.

* * *

After a long, long time, while the moon is still shining high overhead and the crickets are playing their low, listless tune, Jon hears a scuffle from outside. He wakes with a start, brain foggy from a lack of actual rest as he comes to. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour, if even that. What’s going on? What woke him up? Unable to just go back to sleep, Jon slowly sits up on his knees, peeking over the bars of the crib to look around. He’s not in the nursery back at the museum, so that means this isn’t a nightmare…  _ dang it. _ The archivist waits with a patience he’s been told he doesn’t normally have, imagining his ears to be like a cat’s as he awaits anymore sounds. There’s a long pause, until finally…  _ tap tap tap. _ Jon shivers, a deep and painful thing, as he picks up on the incessant, low tapping nearby. It sounds like it’s coming from outside the only window in the room. Uneasy, but far too bloody curious not to get up and check, Jon carefully pulls himself out of the crib, mindful of how much noise he’s making; he’d rather not get drugged, thank you very much. With Cadet in his arms, the man creeps up to the large window, drawing back the curtains while holding his breath. He prays, with all his might, that it’s not a monster outside that’s waiting to eat him.

Unfortunately for Jon, it  _ is  _ a monster that’s waiting for him outside, but at least this monster isn’t planning on doing anything bad to him.

“Beak!” Jon chirps, grinning from ear to ear as he sees who it is.

Breekon grins right back at the archivist. “Quiet, junior; can’t have ya gettin’ caught, now can we?” He warns, holding a finger over his lips to demonstrate.

Jon nods quickly, cupping a hand over his mouth to keep back anymore shouts of excitement.

Breekon chuckles at this, though he’s not the one to talk next. “Good to see ya again, kiddo!” Hope calls from somewhere out of sight, and now that Jon’s looking closer, he can see that Breekon’s standing atop a ladder in order to reach the window; Hope must be holding him up.

“Come on, let’s getcha outta here.” Breekon offers, tapping on the window again as he silently signals for Jon to get it open.

The human man struggles at first, unfamiliar with this type of window, but he unlatches it soon enough, nearly tackling Breekon as he hugs him. “Beak!” He repeats, so happy to see the circus monster that he can hardly contain himself.

“Yeah, it’s me… glad you’re safe, kiddo.” Breekon murmurs, hugging Jon so very gently, it’s one of the reasons he forgets that Breekon and Hope are monsters sometimes.

“Let’s get ‘im outta there, Breekon!” Hope suggests, trying to move his partner along before they get caught.

“Yeah yeah, I’m on it, Hope.” Breekon assures, and without any trouble he hoists Jon out through the window, letting the Little hold onto him like a koala as he slowly climbs down.

Hope is waiting for them both on the ground, hands on his hips as he smirks at the other two men. “Slow, aintcha? Just  _ beggin’  _ to get caught.” He teases.

Breekon rolls his eyes. “Not my fault I ain’t keen on gettin’ caught by actin’ all reckless.” He says, not nearly as wild as his partner in crime.

Hope just chuckles again, still in the mood to make fun of Breekon. “Well at that pace, we’re awful lucky ya weren’t seen!”

“Speakin’ of, we should get back to the truck ‘fore someone comes to check on the lil’ biter.” Breekon warns, holding Jon with both arms as he and Hope walk away from the ladder, not even bothering to take it with them.

Jon hugs Breekon with all his might, arms snug around the tall, dense monster’s neck. Someone actually came for him! He was so worried he’d been abandoned, forgotten, or something even  _ worse,  _ but no, Mommy sent Breekon and Hope to come get him! Now he can go home, and everything will be okay. Quietly, Jon adjusts himself to watch over Breekon’s shoulder as he and Hope head away from the facility, making their way down a short slope and towards god knows what; if Jon had to guess, he would suggest that they’re heading to the mostly-abandoned road behind the complex. But no matter where they’re going, the archivist can’t bring himself to feel worried; he knows that Breekon and Hope are good monsters, and that they’d never do anything to hurt him (at least, now that their boss and them have taken such a liking to him). Before long, Jon finds himself at the bottom of the slope, slack as a tired cat as Breekon turns him around so he can see what’s waiting for him. Without meaning to, the man gasps, amazed by what he sees. It’s Breekon and Hope’s van! But more important than that, through one of the front windows, the archivist sees none other than Nikola Orsinov inside. She really  _ did  _ come for him!

Although he’s a bit too young mentally to be trying to walk around, Jon clambers out of Breekon’s arms and stumble-runs for the van, grinning from ear to ear as he waves his arms at the vehicle. “Mama!” He shouts, too excited to remember to keep his voice down, lest someone dangerous overhear him.

Even with the window blocking some of the sounds from outside, Orsinov perks up right away, a big grin overtaking her face to match her Little’s. She struggles a bit to get out of the van, but it doesn’t stop her from running to meet Jon halfway and scoop him up, spinning in place with a loud cheer. “My  _ baby!” _ She chirps, her voice balanced somewhere between overjoyed and about to cry.

As the Little and Caregiver reunite, Hope casually swings his arm around Breekon’s shoulders. “Precious, ain’t they? Makes us almost wanna consider-”

“-Don’t even go there, mate,” Breekon warns, though his tone is playful. “Havin’ ta deal with you is plenty.”

“Aw, you’re bluffin’.” Hope says, knowing his partner better than that.

Breekon can’t help but smirk. “Yeah, I am.”

Meanwhile, Orsinov finally gives Jon a bit of breathing room, holding the man out in front of her as she looks him over. “Oh sweetheart, I was worried  _ sick  _ about you! Wherever did you  _ go!?” _

“Michael came, Mommy,” Jon explains, biting his lip briefly in order to fight off his desire to start sucking on his fingers; he’d rather not talk about this, but the older avatar deserves to know what happened to him. “He made the door not open no more, ‘n he tried to eat me, but it’s okay, ‘cus Helen ate him back! I guess she’s still learnin’ how to be a monster though, ‘cus she wanted to take me for a trip, even though I was too little to go nowhere,” He glances uphill, towards the LPS facility, as he gives a brief shiver. “I got  _ really  _ lost, Mommy… I’m sorry. I tried to get home, but a police officer found me ‘n wouldn’t leave me alone!”

“Typical heelers,” Breekon mutters, looking genuinely disgusted by the news. “Lucky he didn’t do nothin’ worse than takin’ ya away.”

“She was actually very nice to me… just mean, but secretly,” Jon says, not knowing how else to describe his take on the police while in his current mindset. “She took me to the building over there, ‘n I wasn’t allowed to leave… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, sweetie,” Orsinov urges, pulling Jon in for another tight hug, verging on desperate. “It’s the  _ Distortion  _ that’s to blame, not  _ you…  _ but that  _ does  _ mean the museum isn’t as safe as I thought it was.”

“So what? Next time, we’ll clobber ‘em!” Hope insists, trying to act proud, but Jon can tell he’s just as shaken up as his Caregiver.

Orsinov just shakes her head. “No, if the Distortion can get in… then there’s not much we can do in the way of stopping them, especially with our preparations still underway.”

A long silence follows after that, the four somewhat living beings sharing uncomfortable looks as the oldest of them contemplate on what to do. After a few seconds, Jon finally clears his throat.

“Um… maybe I should go home.” Jon offers, all while mentally wrestling with himself to get big again.

“Honey, we just said it’s not safe for you there,” Orsinov says, patting her little one indulgently on the head. “Don’t worry, Mommy will figure this out for you. Just keep being precious for me, won’t you?”

“Mama,” Jon says it more sternly now, though his tone doesn’t match his demeanor. “I don’t mean back to  _ your  _ home… I gotta go back to the Eye.”

Again, everyone else freezes, eyes slightly widening at the suggestion.

“B-But it’s not  _ time  _ yet!” Orsinov insists, wanting to do anything but give the archivist away, especially so soon after getting him back. “It’s alright baby, we’ll find a way around this!”

“No!” Jon says, and now he can really feel himself getting bigger, even if he doesn’t necessarily want to. “Mum, I love you, but keeping me will get you killed!”

Orsinov stares at Jon for a long moment, eyes never quite leaving his face, and in that moment, Jon realizes he just referred to her as his mother while out of littlespace. He can’t bring himself to be  _ too  _ surprised, as most Littles do the exact same thing with their Caregivers, especially when there’s a large age difference between them, and yet… this feels more  _ special  _ for him. Elias, while a great babysitter behind closed doors, has never shown an interest in displaying his and Jon’s true dynamic to the world, outright telling his employee never to refer to him as his parent outside of their special meetings. Although it’s understandable, seeing as Elias is an Omega and not a Caregiver, something public society would throw a hissy-fit over, this rule has always sort of hurt Jon, making him feel even more alienated from the world than he already does. So, to feel his walls come down so suddenly, and for it not to hurt… it feels good, in a way, Scary, but still good for him. He wants to feel it more often, wants to further explore this lovely relationship he has with the Stranger’s favorite avatar, but he knows it has to come to an end, here and now. He can still love her, and he knows she’ll never stop loving him, even if she really needs to, but this is for the best. Like they say, if you love someone, let them go… Jon can’t help but hate that phrase, now more than ever.

After a few more long, tense seconds, Jon takes a deep breath, trying again to get through to his Caregiver. “You have to let me go, Mum… I’m sorry, but it’s the only way. If I stay with you, everything you have will be destroyed; if not by my friends, then by something much,  _ much  _ less forgiving. I love you more than anyone else… so that’s why I’m asking you to send me away. Please, Mum. Just once, let me do something to help you.”

Orsinov seems to mimic Jon’s steadying breath, though the archivist knows full-well that she can’t breathe like he can. “But I… but I don’t  _ want  _ to,” She says it so simply, for a moment Jon feels more like the parent than the child. “I want to keep you forever and ever and ever! I want you to be my little prince, and for you to dance with me as we shape the world new!”

“I know. That just means you love me,” Jon insists, tone gentle when he speaks to his beloved mother. “But we  _ have  _ to do this. It won’t be easy, not for either of us, but we both know it’s the only way out of this bloody mess.”

Breekon and Hope share a look between themselves, before the former steps forward, placing an uneasy hand on his boss’s shoulder; he has to get up on his tiptoes to reach her. “…He’s right, boss.”

Hope nods in agreement, though he wears the most sour of scowls. “It’s rubbish, but it’s true, boss… lil’ biter’s got a point.”

“But I want more  _ time!” _ Orsinov insists, glaring at her associates with such anger in her eyes, it honestly frightens Jon a bit. “It’s not fair, it’s not  _ fair! _ I  _ finally  _ get to be happy, get to have a baby all my own, and  _ stupid  _ people keep getting in the way of this; I hate it, I hate it,  _ I hate it!” _

“Mum,  _ please  _ don’t be mad at them,” Jon begs, reaching up to put both of his hands on Orsinov’s cheeks, cupping her face so he can turn it to look at him, his touch gentle but firm nonetheless. “I don’t want this to end either, Mum… but I know it has to, if we want everything to be alright. I’m sorry.”

Orsinov bites her bottom lip of porcelain so hard, it cracks, leaving a jagged scar down the middle of her chin, the cut nearly reaching her neck. After a few seconds of just staring at the archivist, as if she’s trying to size him up or look for some sign that he’s lying, she visibly deflates, much to everyone’s relief.

“…Okay,” Orsinov says after a few beats, nervous as she pulls Jon a little closer, holding him against her chest without any give, for fear he’ll disappear here and now. “Okay, my baby… but only because it will keep you safe. I’ll visit you a lot, I promise!”

“Don’t endanger yourself, Mum. Especially not for my sake,” Jon warns, subconsciously leaning his head against the ginormous avatar’s shoulder, finding the dense plastic oddly comforting. “I’m sorry to put you through this.”

“It’s not the end of the world; at least, not  _ yet  _ it isn’t!” Orsinov assures, pasting back on her signature, fake smile as she dances in place, swaying her charge this way and that. “Just you wait, my little archivist. Soon enough, I’ll have you back in my arms, and we can dance the world into our likeness, just as planned!”

Jon bites back on his desire to warn Orsinov that the apocalypse might not happen, especially if the institute has any say in it. Quietly, he hugs his Caregiver as tightly as he can, wishing he could close his eyes and dream this nightmare world away. At the very least, when he falls asleep a few seconds later, he can dream of a less unhappy ending for him and his mother, but for now, he supposes this will have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter of this story, and then I can finally write more fics for this AU (good god, why did I have to make a multichapter fic!? I’m a masochist at heart). Are you guys excited? I sure am! Please comment if you’ve got the time, I’d love to hear your thoughts!


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